


I Believe in Sherlock Holmes

by Ranowa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Forgiveness, Gen, Homeless Network (Sherlock), Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Implied/Referenced Torture, John Watson is a Bit Not Good, Kidnapping, Major Character Injury, No Mary Morstan, Non-Linear Narrative, Protective Mycroft, Recovery, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug, Sherlock is a Mess, i really just ignore all of series 3 and write my own angst, john starts not the best but he'll earn his happy ending this time, series 3 fix it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 63,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21870463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranowa/pseuds/Ranowa
Summary: John's been angry at Sherlock since the day he turned up wearing a fake mustache and a tuxedo. He's still angry, even as he moves back into 221B, and he never hesitates to let Sherlock know it.One day, Sherlock stops saying sorry, and walks out instead.One day, Sherlock wakes up handcuffed in the boot of a car, and John doesn't know, because John's been angry at him for so long he's forgotten that he's not the only one that's hurting.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 230
Kudos: 388





	1. June 20, 2014

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back with more angst and Sherlock whump ; u ;
> 
> I usually pre-write most of my multi-chapters, but this time I decided to take it as I post. I haven't written a non-linear narrative in a while, so if things are confusing, I'd like to be able to work with that feedback and make it better as I go. These chapters are looking much shorter than my normal, so hopefully I still should be able to go relatively quickly, here. 
> 
> Another quick note, before we start. I did tag this as abuse. While this fic isn't Johnlock- they are platonic here- in canon and in this fic, a lot of the ways John treats Sherlock (cough TLD cough) /are/ textbook abuse, and a lot of his early thought patterns here and actions reflect that. I promise he'll redeem himself, and I have his arc here planned for him to realize what he's done and do better, but, that's what's going on here.

Sherlock was let out of the boot after an interminable period of time being driven in circles. His internal clock knocked off its axis for the first time in years, and his internal GPS map shredded to so many pieces he didn't know where to begin picking them up.

He had no idea where he was, and he had no idea how long he'd been gone for.

Two brutish sets of impatient hands dragged him back upright. One on each arm, nails digging in through his sleeves to roll him sideways, upright, to his feet, _Christ;_ the vertigo was so intense it felt as if he was swimming in wet cement and the contents of his stomach were caught in his throat. He could've been upside-down or right-side-up for all he knew, and he'd never be able to tell the difference.

Whichever one it was, Sherlock wasn't so sure he was steady enough to keep up that way for that much longer.

He hadn't been on his feet in weeks.

The hands jostled him further. A thick, hot sack over his head, jet black and sweltering, blinded him more than efficiently, and the foam earplugs, so rudely shoved in before transport, robbed him of any useful sensory input save for touch. Even that was muted, uncertain, delayed.

He hadn't been able to feel his hands in days.

All intentional, of course. The only way to defang a clever mind.

And it had worked.

He had no idea where he was, where he had come from, or how long he had been kept there.

He had _nothing._

Sherlock was powerless but to let the men lead him. Away from the car, away from the street, stumbling to what was perhaps a sidewalk; his head swam too viciously to ever make sense of it. His stomach heaved and his utterly boneless insides rose up, bile in his throat, in his mouth, and it took whatever shreds of stubbornness he had left not to throw up.

They shoved downwards without ceremony, and Sherlock hit his knees, knocked down so heavily that they stung and cracked ribs howled. He was so relieved to be off his feet he honestly didn't care; for a moment he couldn't do anything but kneel there with an empty head and tilt with the euphoria of it.

He didn't care that even without the gun to his head or grave at his feet, it felt symbolically like nothing but an execution.

Surely intentional. The team clearly had psy-ops training. Likely Russian based, from the... something. Something. He'd forgotten. The conclusion came from somewhere, just- ah. No matter.

Could not possibly care less, at the moment.

One hand grabbed him roughly by the hair, fisting a knot of it and the bag all at once, holding him in place while another invaded next to his face, knocking it to the side to get at the earplug on his right side. Sherlock tried to work up the strength to spit, to bite, to- something, at least. _Anything._ But by the time his head had cleared enough to manage more than ragged, pathetic breathing, the hand was gone, and he was being tugged back by the hair instead, in a very evident demand to _listen._

"I am going to release one of your hands. Then, I am going to get up, and drive away."

Same man as before. Military training, possibly current, not from England.

"You are going to stay here, and not going to move for one minute. There is a pay phone up the street to your left, and there is enough money in your wallet for a call, if you should choose to use it. If you choose to, instead, move before the minute is up, then we will kill you, and we will send you back to your brother, piece, by piece, by piece. Do you understand?"

So he'd been right. This had been about Mycroft.

All along, this had been about Mycroft.

Sherlock sucked his lip in between his teeth, gnawing into the split he had already bitten, and once again willed his stomach to settle.

"You're a dead man walking," he murmured.

"Hmm." The hand already in his hair curled tighter, tugging him backwards by just an extra degree. It didn't even hurt, and Sherlock wished it would have. "Give Mycroft our love, won't you, dear?"

The cuff was released at the same moment as the kiss to the cheek, a pressure barely felt through the thickness of the bag. The kiss to the cheek that was nothing underneath the mind-shattering agony that electrified up and down the entire length of his arm, the whiplash that made him cry out no matter how disgusted he was at himself for it, and he was shaking as the man pulled away and couldn't stop.

Eleven steps, back to the car. Neat slam of the car door, and a moment later, the loud scratch of tires and the sound of an engine from barely a meter away.

Sherlock counted to sixty, cheek crushed against a knee he barely had the strength to raise, and back bowed over so severely it felt like his neck was about to crack.

Almost done.

It was almost over.

_Don't keel over yet. Stupid Sherlock. Defective Sherlock. Not yet..._

The count expired. He kept going for five more counts, because his head was so dull and heavy and filled with mush, he'd forgotten what he was counting for.

Over. _Over._

Sherlock spat and heaved, shaking his head this way and that to work the loathsome bag off like a dog. He thrashed violently and shook and gasped, desperate and sick, and the instant white light shot through to the backs of his eyes it felt as if he'd stepped off a rollercoaster. His stomach tilted left, the ground underneath him tilted right, and a dizzy spell just slammed straight through him with such rotten vehemence it left him breathless, on his side, and throwing up into the gutter.

His head spun. His stomach rolled. His vision sloshed sideways like soup in a pan and it felt like his brain was sloshing with it.

Everything hurt.

Sherlock let himself sag, when his stomach finally settled. That was a lie. It hadn't settled at all, the nausea still wet in his throat, but he hadn't exactly had much of anything to throw up to begin with and when the heaves stopped, he just slid further against the ground, and the cushion of the concrete against his cheek was _exquisite._

This was his new home, then. Sidewalk. Concrete. Cold side of the road. This was his new bed, and he was not ever going to drag himself from it again. Not ever. Never _ever._

There was no sense, in bothering to look left for the pay phone, or searching for his wallet. He knew he'd have the money, and he knew he'd been left close enough for the phone that had to be there to make a call.

The only problem remaining was that he had no idea who to call.

Or where he was, for that matter.

His internal map of London relied on a disciplined sense of spatial orientation. Of knowing where he was at all times, and tracing his movements from one point on the map to another. He had no idea where he was now because he had no idea how he'd gotten here, and he had no idea where he'd been kept for the past...

Didn't know that either, actually.

Bit not good, probably.

South side of London, probably. Outskirts of the city, one of the old abandoned industrial districts, the ground and air so thoroughly seeded with smog and filth no one had wanted to rebuild. Old factory across the street, likely textiles, another next to it, the same. There wouldn't be any CCTVs out here, no witnesses at all, which was surely the intent of being sat here like a dog left on the side of the road. Mycroft was not coming.

Good, as far as he was concerned.

Good bloody riddance.

The sky was grey and overcast, the sunlight weak and watery through the clouds. If it wasn't for his coat and suit jacket underneath, his scarf, he already would've been shivering. The smell of a coming storm thick on the air. If he stayed here, he was going to get rained on. If he got rained on, in his current state, he was going to freeze to death.

Had to move.

Had to get up.

Had to make a call.

_Come on. Up._

_UP, Sherlock._

He stayed down.

He should call an ambulance. He was malnourished, dehydrated, had at least two cracked ribs, and his hands in particular needed medical attention beyond what John could provide. _(John's not coming, Sherlock.)_ Hateful or not, they were going to need surgery. That meant he needed hospital.

He could call NSY. If he managed to catch Lestrade at his office, that would get the gears turning faster, and emergency services would get here that much faster if he just called 999. If Lestrade was still looking for him. Had ever been looking. Wasn't sure about that part.

He should call-

 _Not Mycroft,_ he thought, and a chuckle rasped deep in his chest. Good lord, not Mycroft. He would be helicoptered out within fifteen minutes, and in a private A&E within ten after that. Sufficiently poked and prodded to be a pin cushion, pictures taken, questions asked, all taken care of with such rapid efficiency he would feel akin to a nice and wrapped Christmas present with a bow being stuck right on top. No, thank you, Mycroft. Actually, scratch the thank you; just no. No, _no._

He should call...

Sherlock swallowed harder, forcing back the bitter taste of bile in his throat, and shook his head once, so vehemently the pavement wore a scrape into his cheek.

Not John. He should not call John.

There was an unfailingly stupid part of him that wanted to. A voice that he would've smacked out of his head, if he could bear to move his arm. A moronic, imbecilic, stupid voice that told him to pick up the phone, and call John, and then all of this would go away.

He should not call John.

He would not call John.

For a few minutes on, Sherlock just laid there: cheek to pavement, knees to chest. Relished the feeling of being able to lie down at all, the delicious hurt of the blood pounding through his freed wrist, the aches and grinding pain and shaky crash of adrenaline as his body begged to shut down. He laid there, and he let his mind grind to a halt right there, right where it had rammed into a brick wall and stopped: _he could call John._

He could go to Baker Street. He would curl up on the sofa. Mrs. Hudson would bring him tea and warm blankets, tutting to him about looking after himself better, and she'd chide him even as she brought him those muffins he wouldn't admit to liking aloud but he did. He really did. And Graham would bring him case files, the way he only ever did when he felt particularly guilty about something, which was just silly, but Sherlock would let him, and he'd have cold case files and tea and blankets and what more could he possibly want? And Mycroft, well, Mycrot would piss off because he felt guilty, and he could just live there, just like that. Warm and safe and pain-free, and maybe if he played his cards exactly right John would be there, too, John would be there as if none of this had ever happened, and...

_Shut up. Shut up, you heartless, undisciplined, needy child._

That voice in his head had used to sound like Mycroft.

It didn't sound like him that much, anymore.

_(Two years ago.)_

A low rumble echoed overhead, foreboding and threatening. There was no water, not yet, but Sherlock sniffed and inhaled the warm stillness of the rain that was to come.

Sherlock glared across the street.

And then, with the deepest breath he'd ever taken in the whole of his entire miserable life, he kicked himself over onto his back, and rolled all the way up to his feet.

It hurt. Bloody fucking hell, it _hurt._ Even with his hands no longer bound in place, his shoulders were so stiff and sore and screaming he couldn't bear to move the one still behind his back, and his hand were half numb, half on fire, and _god damn son of a shit fucking whore_ he was going to scream. He was going to scream out here in the middle of nowhere because nobody could hear him and he was never going to move his hands again.

The ten shuffled steps to the pay phone felt like he'd sprinted an entire marathon, and when he finally made it, all he wanted to do was sink to his knees beside it and go to sleep.

Instead, he gritted his teeth, and set about the arduous misery of fishing his wallet out of his pocket.

He then neatly proceeded to delete the following five minutes of dry sobbing, dropping change, swallowing bile, maneuvering the phone about with his elbows, and overall fumbling like a drunk, that it took to manage to place the call.

"Hello?"

"It's me," Sherlock panted. "I... need a ride."

* * *

**Blog of Dr. John H Watson**

An Update- June 20 2014

This post has been a long time in coming. I know, and I am sorry for the wait, and I'm sorry for how short this one is going to be. I want to thank all the concerned well-wishers who wrote in, and apologise for not getting back to them like normal. It's been a really busy couple of weeks, and I was trying to put this off until the matter resolves. It seems this might not have such a timely resolution, though, and I feel you all deserve an explanation.

The reason we haven't been taking clients is because Sherlock is missing.

There hasn't been any sort of public statement until now because a relative of Sherlock's insisted (if you know Sherlock, you know who). But I've been letting him run the show for the past five weeks and it's not working. So we're trying my way instead, now.

We're working with DI Lestrade, who's asked me to keep most of what we've learned so far out of this post, for the sake of the investigation. I agree with him, so for now, I'm not going to be able to tell you much. All I can say is that Sherlock has been missing for 36 days, and that he went missing from London.

I can't say what else we do have. But it's really not that much.

If anyone's seen him, or has any idea of anything they think might help, or learns anything at all, please comment below. Come to Baker Street, or call it into the Yard. If you want to stay anonymous, you can just email me and I'll look into everything. Please, no matter how small you think it is, it could help us find Sherlock.

This next part, I've debated on whether I should make public or not. But at this point, I think I have to. Any prying comments about this part aren't welcome, and won't be responded to- it's between me and Sherlock. I just can't find him so I can't say it to his face. So, here goes.

I need a second miracle, Sherlock.

I promise you that I will not waste it this time.

* * *

The ring of his mobile started John out of the first sleep he'd gotten in two days straight. Fumbling in the dark, his hands still numb and his brain still turned all the way off, somehow, he got it slapped to his cheek on the second ring, and the call blindly answered halfway through the third.

"Hello?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always welcome and appreciated! <3


	2. Fallout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all the comments/kudos!!! Onwards!
> 
> HowEver- before I forget (again!) This entire work was inspired by an art linked just below, by Reapersun! (thank you to BenedictsBlueWaterbottle for letting me know!) My fic is NOT the same story that Reapersun has for the art, I just wanted to source the original inspiration for the fic, before it spiraled out of control into what it is now. The angst in it HURTS and was making me need to write /something/ from the very moment I saw it ; u ;
> 
> https://66.media.tumblr.com/61d1e8cd3eaafce16234e856cc841317/tumblr_mgegc88tF81qjiwx5o1_r1_500.jpg
> 
> Artist: https://twitter.com/reapersun_art

**| R E W I N D |**

**May 15 2014**

* * *

**Blog of Dr. John H Watson**

Possible Changes- May 15 2014

Not much to report, at the moment. I'm only making this post as a heads up, to everyone who follows me for the case write-ups. Which I know is just about all of you.

I'm going to move out.

I know lots of you don't believe me, when I say that I didn't know about Sherlock faking his death. There's really nothing I can do about that, except say it again. I didn't know. And I'm still angry at him for it. Most of you reading this were here, two years ago, reading then, so I don't think there's a need to explain: you know what it was like. It was a very difficult time, for all of us who knew him. To find out that he was faking the whole bloody thing hasn't actually been the saving grace turn around that I'd thought it would be.

I thought I'd be able to get over it, when I moved back to Baker Street. However, events over the past couple of days have made me question that.

I needed a clean break, after Sherlock died. I think I need one again.

To those interested, that does mean no more case write-ups. Sorry. It means a lot that so many people enjoyed them.

To Sherlock, if you still read my blog.

Consider this my two week's notice. I'll have all my stuff moved out by the end of the month.

* * *

John woke up, dry-eyed, sore, and wincing from the bitter, sick residue of alcohol.

He glared once at the time on his phone, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

* * *

Downstairs, he cleaned up the broken glass, because of course Sherlock hadn't done it.

He binned the, by now, thoroughly ruined and likely hazardous results of whatever Sherlock had been midway through experimenting on the night before. Because of course, Sherlock hadn't done that either.

Then, when he couldn't manage to sit still for more than two minutes at his laptop, his hands shaking again, an incensed rage building in the back of his throat until he saw red, John made his decision, and headed back upstairs to start packing.

His leg ached dimly. An almost forgotten pain, quiet enough that he didn't have to limp on the way up the stairs, an ache that could be swept under the rug and shoved back into the closet. The way he was sore, sometimes, after Sherlock took him on a wild goose chase just a bit too long, or sprinted after a suspect just one street too far.

There had been no such hunts yesterday.

Lestrade called, just as John had started on his laundry.

"Sorry about, um. Yesterday. I didn't really overhear all of what you two were talking about, but it sounded... heated."

"Of course it was heated. It's Sherlock." He tossed a shirt, then another, then another, and kept tossing until he ran out of shirts, and was left to stare downwards at the palm of his hand. The reddened, still faintly sore palm.

It shouldn't be sore. It had no reason to be. He hadn't swung that hard.

"I'm surprised you're calling for him at all, after that," he sighed. Still flexing his hand. "I figured he'd be off the case."

Because of course he was calling for Sherlock. Because it was always, just _always,_ about Sherlock, wasn't it?

John could hear the unhappy grimace of a sigh straight through the phone. "Well, he's not talking to any other witnesses today, that's for sure."

"And how is Mrs. Harrow?"

"...no longer threatening a lawsuit, at least."

John didn't even know what Sherlock had said, to the widow on scene the day before. He'd been across the room and a little shellshocked himself, the argument Lestrade and just about every officer on scene had heard leaving him hollow and numb, without a clue for what to think. _John_ had been shellshocked, at least, but Sherlock seemed to have not even realised there'd been an argument to begin with. _John_ had been left standing there, staring numbly at the consultant's back- and Sherlock, without a care in the world, had just come at Lestrade's beck and call, flouncing back right into the thick of things to interview the victim's widow.

About two minutes later, the poor woman had been in tears, and John had found himself with an armful of gangly detective, thrust there and thusly ejected from the scene by Donovan.

They'd never even gotten around to talking about it; not on top of everything else. Whatever Sherlock had done that was a Bit Not Good this time, that was. Whatever social lesson John was meant to teach him that any six year old could've figured out on their own but Sherlock had somehow subsisted without because he just didn't give a damn.

Maybe John had tired of playing parent to someone who should've learned better- _would have_ learned better, if he at all cared- a long time ago.

"...Well. Um." Lestrade coughed, awkward and obviously uncomfortable, put off ease by John's brusque responses. Maybe if John had been a little more clear-minded, he would've made an effort. But here they were. "He's not talking with any witnesses, but I would appreciate a second set of eyes on the blood spatter. If I remember right, that's his speciality. Eh. One of them."

"Mhm."

"Do you... know where he is, then...?"

"No," John said shortly. "He walked out last night, and I haven't seen him since." He flexed his hand again, glaring at his knuckles and then the palm.

No, he didn't know where Sherlock was. He did have a few guesses, yeah. Most of them ending in the floor of a crackhouse.

Today, he didn't much care.

"...Then. Um." Another cough. "I'll just. Try calling him again, then."

"All right."

There was another uncomfortable silence.

"...Listen. John. I know things have been very difficult between you two, ever since he... came back. If... if you ever need to talk to someone-"

"Sorry, I think I hear someone at the door. I'll talk to you later, Greg."

There was no one at the door.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson didn't make her appearance until two days after that, one more call and one more voicemail from Lestrade away, four drinks downed, and that dammable book that had started all of this resting, unopened, in his hands.

Sherlock, as far as John was able to tell, hadn't set foot into the flat once, in all that time.

"Yoo-hoo! I've got some leftover scones, here, just made them... oh, look at that." She tutted sympathetically, shaking her head. "Did you two have a bit of a domestic, again?"

John didn't even realise what she meant, at first. He had to follow her sympathetic gaze for it to click, tracking it to the collection of little glass crumbs, scattered all over the desk and Sherlock's papers, and- oh. Right. _That_. "No, Mrs. H, I'm sorry about that," he murmured, even mustering up an apologetic wince. "That's still from a few days ago... I'm hoping to get him to clean it up, for a change. Don't worry, there's none on the floor."

Their landlady sighed, giving him a shake of her head and an unhappy murmur under her breath. She continued, too, to step delicately, as if not entirely confident in his promise to have swept it all up off the floor. "Best of luck to you on that one, dear. I've been trying to teach that boy about household chores for years before you ever met; I'm _still_ not entirely convinced he knows how to make tea."

He did know how to make tea, at least. John was sure that Sherlock Holmes could, at the very least, manage that much, because he'd seen him do it. In Baskerville. To drug him.

He swallowed hard, averting his eyes from Mrs. Hudson's bustling in the kitchen, and once again found himself watching Sherlock's empty chair, instead.

He wasn't on a case- Lestrade had made that perfectly clear. John had been avoiding the flat as much as he could, these past few days, at the surgery to keep his mind occupied, but there was no sign that Sherlock had been back to the flat, in all that time.

Three days missing.

John really didn't have much of a question, about just where it was Sherlock was, or what exactly it was that he was up to.

_An addict is as an addict does._

If he really made himself stop and think about it, go over that entire terrible day and that entire horrible conversation in his head. Everything he had said, and everything that Sherlock had said back.

John hadn't said anything that was untrue. He maintained that now, even with distance in the light of day. He'd been cruel, at times, and he'd been as hurtful as he could, to that bloody heartless machine, if it was even possible to _hurt Sherlock's feelings;_ John snorted under his breath, a bitter weight crushing the breath out of his chest, _as if-_ but he hadn't lied. And he couldn't bring himself to regret anything that he'd said, either.

And maybe that was the problem.

He'd moved back into 221B because Sherlock's return had been a sledgehammer to the fragile foundations John had just barely managed to build. For the third time he'd been left drowning, and even if Sherlock had been the anchor to weigh him down the second time, he'd been his life preserver the first- so John had turned to him again. He'd get over it, he'd thought. He'd forgive Sherlock, of course he would, Sherlock was effervescent and extraordinary and otherworldly, a beautiful and brilliant bulldozer, _of course_ he'd forgive him, and they'd move on, and soon they'd be taking cases like the old times again and 2012-2014 would just be something to not be spoken about ever again.

He'd been wrong.

Oh, had he been _wrong._

John fiddled with the book in his lap again, stroking a thumb down the cold spine. He watched as Mrs. Hudson continued to bustle about the kitchen, cleaning and futzing and boiling water for tea, busy in the motherly way only she could really pull off.

 _I'm moving out,_ he wanted to say.

Couldn't quite, yet. The words got stuck in his throat. Just like the last time, he looked at her and he didn't want to say it. Didn't want the tears. The questions. The begging for him to just stay a little longer, give it just one more chance, oh, she would miss him so...

If he could say what he'd said to Sherlock, and if he could hit him across the face, and not even want to apologise- if he could know he was out there _right now_ with a needle in his arm somewhere, and not feel anything at all beyond the weariest sense of jaded annoyance-

He could not stay here any longer.

"Oh- oh, don't you worry, John." Mrs. Hudson patted his shoulder as she passed him a cup of tea, settling into Sherlock's chair for herself because she was the only one Sherlock ever let use it besides himself. "You know how he is, sometimes he just needs to think for a while. Needs to sort out everything going on in his funny little head. But he's always okay, in the end, isn't he, love."

"Mm," he said.

He was.

 _Sherlock_ was _always_ okay in the end.

"What's that you've got- oh! That book! You know, I'd almost forgotten about it. All the excitement, you know, since he's come back." She smiled at him, again in that very motherly way. It felt like he was chewing on shards of glass. "That was such a sweet thing you did for him, John. He really ought to thank you for it- most touching gesture _I've_ ever seen..."

"...Mm," he said again.

And for the first time, he let himself look down at it.

_I Believe in Sherlock Holmes_

_Dr. John H Watson_

It felt as if his throat was bleeding, now.

The seconds ticked by.

The seconds ticked by, and John remembered backhanding Sherlock across the face, right over this very book.

"I need some air," he rasped, and was out the door in a mad scramble before Mrs. Hudson had even had time to sigh.

* * *

Sherlock had been dead three months, seventeen days, and six hours, when John decided to write it.

He'd written it for a lot of reasons.

So every single bloody headline and reporter announcing Sherlock Holmes as a fraud to the world would have to retract their lies and publish the proof of who he _really_ was. To stick it to Donovan, and Anderson, and maybe even Lestrade, a little- every single last smug bastard at the Yard who had called Sherlock a monster and driven him off that rooftop because he'd been helpless and scared and above all else, _alone_. An apology of his own, a horrified, miserable, heartbroken apology, for looking him in the eye and calling him a machine when oh, _god,_ how could he have ever said something that terrible to his best friend. How could he have said that to _Sherlock._ How could he have said that to Sherlock, and then an hour later he was standing on the edge of a rooftop, his fault, his _fault._ A book he'd been proud to hand to his ex-therapist, shoving it into her mailbox with a handwritten note inside that said once and for all he wasn't in denial, because his best friend was _for real,_ and he had proof. A giant middle finger to Mycroft, who John fucking _knew_ could prove his brother's innocence but instead had loftily purred about reputations and publicity and _it's just best to let this go, Dr. Watson, isn't it?_

To clear his name, because Sherlock had deserved absolutely nothing less.

(Lestrade was miserable. Lestrade had barely been able to look him in the eyes in months. Lestrade hadn't even come to the funeral, but John had found him at the gravesite a week later, and it had been just about all the DI could do to get out _I didn't think I'd have a right to be there, anymore.)_

But most of all, he'd written that book because it had been three months, seventeen days, and six hours since John had watched his best friend kill himself, and every time he looked at his watch, _he still knew it, down to the hour._

He'd had to do something, or he'd have been going to go mad.

So he'd started the book.

Every single case of Sherlock's that he could find. Some with a paper trail at the Yard, already being reinvestigated by solicitors and independent watchdog groups with a fine tooth comb for any single mistake that Sherlock could have made. There had been none. Minor crimes committed, perhaps, and violations of civil liberties- but never once had they found that Sherlock had been _wrong._

John had never been so bloody proud of someone in his life.

Some were even easier, cases that John had worked with him, still with names and dates and addresses recorded in a private and password-protected file on his laptop. He'd taken a very particular pleasure in writing up Irene Adler's case in the book... even as Mycroft and Irene and the Royals had been mysteriously whitewashed in all published copies into _Michael_ and _Isabel_ and _government official from Italy._

Some cases had been much harder to find. International clients responding to news articles and blog posts begging for aid, Sherlock's homeless networks sending out feelers and pointing him in the right direction, often landing him with former clients who wouldn't speak on record, or those that would, and nobody at the Yard would believe. More than once, John had left the country on the trail himself. He'd finally gotten the full story of Mrs. Hudson's ex-husband, and then ended up seeing the files for himself in Miami. Then given her a hug when he'd gotten back to London, and taken a taxi to Sherlock's grave instead of his own flat.

Dozens of other cases, he was sure, had been impossible to find.

That had been one of the worst moments, in those two years. Sitting there in a hotel room in Switzerland, tallying up the 87 cases he'd managed to record down in enough detail to clear Sherlock's name- and realising how many more people out there that there had to be, and that he would never find.

So many people that he had helped, and the world would never know, because Sherlock hadn't wanted the money or the recognition or the reputation that had gotten him killed.

He'd just wanted to help people, was what John had written in his book.

He'd just wanted to help people.

A year and seven months, it had taken him. A massive undertaking of constant research, constant sourcing, constant interviews, constant notes. Every single day it had felt like his chest was being crushed with an iron weight, because every single day he'd rolled out of bed to uncover the life of his dead best friend, and it had been _hell_ and the most painful thing he'd ever done, and it'd kept him alive at the same time.

That book had been all he'd had. And no matter how painful it had been, he'd kept at it all the way through to the end, so he could be able to stand at Sherlock's grave and finally say to him, _I'm sorry I couldn't before it was too late, but I've done it now, Sherlock. Everything that I could. I've done it._

_I did it, Sherlock._

Writing that book had gotten him through the worst period of his life. He'd done it for Sherlock, he'd done it for himself- but one thing he hadn't done it for was the gratitude. Of course not; he certainly hadn't written it for Sherlock to rise up out of the ground and say _thank you, John,_ but even after the detective had come back, that hadn't changed. He hadn't written it for Sherlock's gratitude, and he hadn't expected it, even in the miracle turn of events that had turned it into an actual possibility.

John swept a thumb over the cover again, tracing the worn letters again with a lump in his throat.

And resisted the urge to throw the damn thing into the Thames.

He hadn't expected gratitude.

But he had expected Sherlock to care.

And that was really how it was, wasn't it?

Sherlock had put him through the worst two years of his life, pranced back in with a smile, and had never seemed to care, not even once, about what he'd left behind. And he'd taken one look at this book, after war and Harry's addiction and Sherlock's suicide _still_ the hardest thing that he'd ever done, and-

And he hadn't cared.

Again.

 _A waste of time, John,_ he'd said.

Sherlock didn't care.

He looked at all that he'd done to clear his name and called it a waste of time. He looked at what his suicide had done to him, and it hadn't mattered at all.

And that was the final straw.

It wasn't really until that moment, that the finality of it hit him. The assuredness of the decision, that it was _right,_ and not only would he feel better when he left Baker Street but it was something that he had to do if he ever wanted to move on. He felt sorry for Mrs. Hudson, and this time would be sure to try and keep her in his life. He'd still try and meet up with Greg for a pint, and he'd keep in touch with Molly, because she'd been taken advantage of just like he had been. It wasn't going to be like last time- he _was_ going to come out of this standing on his own two feet.

But he was done with letting Sherlock Holmes take him granted.

* * *

John spent half an hour walking it off back to Baker Street, and texted Harry asking after a weekend on her couch- and in a dramatic little tantrum that would've made Sherlock proud, tossed the book in the Thames after all.

_What about that, Sherlock, hm? I wouldn't stay with her when I got home from Afghanistan, but now even she is better than you. Didn't 'deduce' this one coming, did you?_

He stalked all the way back home, and then, just a street away from the flat, decided that if he was going to be spending the weekend with Harry, might as well get a drink now while he still could.

And everything really would've been just _bloody fucking fine-_

if Lestrade hadn't been waiting for him, when he finally got back home.

* * *

"He's not here. I told you before, he's still not here, and I still don't know where he is."

"What? No, mate, it's not-"

"I am not Sherlock Holmes' bloody keeper. I wasn't before, and I'm still not now."

"John, I-"

And maybe that drink had been a bad idea after all, but John just unlocked the door and shook a finger blindly in the inspector's face, his temper already caught and rising, and if he slipped and said something that went too far, what the hell did he care? "I don't know where Sherlock is. If you really need to talk to him so badly, trace his phone or call Mycroft, because I am not going out to search crackdens with you in the middle of the night just to find where he's stashed himself _this time."_

Where did Mycroft get off, calling him to look after his brother on _danger nights;_ what did Lestrade think he was doing, calling him as if John was just to keep track of a tornado as it blew through the city?! Sherlock was an adult, John seethed, toeing excess mud off his shoes; if he choose not to take care of himself, that was his own damn business.

A hand caught his sleeve only a step inside, fingers tightening when he tried to slip away. They held him in an iron grip and spun him back around, the tipsy blur in his head spinning sideways but Lestrade glared at him and did not let up, stern and stubborn and out of the blue, just as unhappy about it as John. "Listen to me," he said, in a voice that he hadn't heard in a very, very long time. Not just the police officer voice. The- the _worried_ voice. "I already traced his phone. That's why I'm here."

John stared back in silence, and kept his clamped mouth shut.

Lestrade would not look like _that,_ all tense and quiet, with a shadow in his eyes and shoulders that were too stiff to be calm, if this was...

Well, one thing he knew for sure was that Lestrade would not be using the _worried_ voice to tell him that Sherlock had left his phone at Baker Street when he'd pulled his vanishing act.

Somehow, instead of worry, all that settled into John's stomach and pulled his shoulders and mouth down, was a weary sense of exasperation.

 _Not again,_ he wanted to sigh.

For god's sake, Sherlock.

"We traced his phone," Lestrade said again, and at last let him go, when John stopped trying to pull away. He cleared his throat in an uncomfortable cough, a hand smoothed down his jacket, first to absently pat out wrinkles, but then fidgeting for something within. "It hadn't moved in three days. Which- is a long time to not move. Even for someone with Sherlock's... past issues. So we, Anderson and I, we looked over the area a bit today, after work, and we found this."

Sherlock's mobile. Presented to him in a small and sealed tight evidence bag, the device off, the display solid black- and the screen, shattered.

John swallowed.

"That's..."

He closed his eyes, and remembered Sherlock's head and body, shattered on the pavement.

"So _what?"_

Lestrade twitched back in open shock.

"So _what?!"_ John hissed again, his voice cracked. Oh, _god,_ there'd been so much blood. So much blood and the fucker had been _alive,_ listening to John beg him to hold on, to just look at him, how dare he, how _dare he?_ "He dropped his phone and now he's got all of Scotland Yard doing a manhunt for him? Because the last one turned out so well?" He snorted and turned away, already headed straight for the stairs, and another stiff drink in his future. "I'm not playing that game, this-"

"John!"

_"What?!"_

Lestrade was staring at him, now, wide-eyed and almost aghast. He stared at him like he'd said something _wrong,_ the evidence bag held limply by his side and his stare slid through the spaces between his ribs, making his skin prickle and his insides knot with the judgment that wasn't being said. As if _he_ was the one who'd said something a Bit Not Good now, and didn't have the wherewithal to care.

"John," he said again. "We already pulled surveillance footage for three nights ago. Sherlock was ambushed in the middle of the street by four armed men who sedated him, forced him into the boot of a car, and escaped off camera in under thirty seconds. He dropped his phone when they hit him in the face to make him sit still enough for the needle." He released his sleeve for the second time in as many minutes, finally returning John back to his own space, only to still stare at him as if there was something not quite right. "I don't know what's been going on between you two, lately, but at the moment Sherlock's a missing person, and this time I'm pretty sure he needs your help. Because he's not faking."

* * *

**| F o r w a r d |**

**June 24 2014**

* * *

Fact:

Billy Wiggins was the best addition to his homeless network that Sherlock had ever made.

Fact. Indisputable fact.

Being bundled into the taxi was uncomfortable at best. The thirty minutes or more spent regulating his breathing beforehand, head between his knees, eyes squeezed shut, all just melted away with the agony that was being lifted and all but dragged, leaving him nauseous and swaying and being stared at by one very bemused cabbie. But oh, _god,_ he was helped up just before the rain and with such a lack of fussing, interrogations, or concern, and that alone was sheer bliss. Bliss perhaps comparable to purely cut heroin, except Sherlock _hated_ heroin, so really it was just bliss incarnate and that was that.

Being able to give the address for Wiggins' flat, and _not_ face even one prying demand that was he _quite_ sure he didn't need hospital instead, was just positively orgasmic.

"Get my wallet out," he snapped instead, nestled comfortable and cool against the window. _God,_ that felt good. Whoever had invented car windows deserved the Nobel Prize. "There's an extra twenty in it for you if you drive gently and keep your mouth shut."

Task accomplished, the great and mighty Sherlock Holmes then let his eyes slide shut, and gave the world permission to go back to indistinct fuzz all around him.

So tired. So bone-crushingly, mind-numbingly, _utterly tired._

Wiggins did up his seatbelt for him- had to, before the cabbie would start to drive. This was infinitely preferable to pointing out the fact that Sherlock couldn't do it for himself.

"...You want me to call your Dr. Watson for you?"

Sherlock stiffened.

"He's... he's been really-"

"You'll mind your own business, is what you'll do." Sherlock stopped for a moment, burying his nose deeper into his scarf. So tired, and worse than that, so _cold._ "And he's not _my_ Dr. Watson."

"...Okay, Shezza."

Sherlock sighed, and slid his eyes back shut.

* * *

Everything happened on autopilot, for a while.

He sent all existing files straight for deletion. Most of it, he was too fuzzy and drained to properly record memories of it to begin with.

Water, pressed at him that his hands were too numb to hold. It had to be swallowed down intolerably, Wiggins giving him mouthfuls as he fought not to choke. Wiggins wincing as Sherlock bled all over his filthy sheets, and Sherlock didn't care, because he'd spent two years bleeding over filthy sheets and really didn't see what the matter was at all. Wiggins asking him questions. He probably answered them. Some of them.

Last time he'd been in this state, it'd been in the back of a disguised cargo truck, ferried out of Serbia with Mycroft's hand clapped over his mouth and the other gripping a blanket around his shoulders, the interfering nosy busybody excuse for a brother hissing in his ear to _keep quiet._

Well, Mycroft certainly wasn't here _now,_ was he?

"What was that, Sherlock?"

"The handcuffs," he sighed. He couldn't lift his hand to show it, so was relegated to just giving a gesture with his chin, instead. Abhorrent and weak and pathetic, and he did not care. "I will not abide by being restrained in this manner for any longer. You will pick the lock."

Only one cuff had been released. All the way back when they'd hauled him out of the boot of the car, an hour ago, now, agony still radiating through the freed limb all the way down from the bone. The other cuff was still in place: locked tightly around one shredded wrist. A wrist still held behind his back, because he knew how much it would hurt to settle it in his lap and frankly, he'd had just enough of hurting, lately.

Bloody hell, it _hurt._

"I. Well. Shezza, I-"

"Spit it _out."_

"I... don't actually know how. To pick a lock like this."

Silence.

Count to ten. Like John had taught him. Count to ten, whenever he wanted to lash out. As if ten seconds would somehow remove the words currently curling his tongue and the complete and utter verbal evisceration of everything that was Bill Wiggins' existence. Stupid John, _stupid_ John. Count to ten.

Sherlock dropped his head to his knees, and put every single bit of his considerable brain power into willing an endless black hole to open up before him, and allow him to tumble in it.

"I'll talk you through it," he croaked.

John knew how to pick locks. An amusing skill, in someone so outwardly, determinedly respectable. But, then, what did that matter? John wouldn't pick the lock at all. John would take one look at him and bundle him to a taxi, and say, "Nearest A&E, _now,"_ in that _voice_ of his, and that was even _before_ he'd fallen. Even Old John wouldn't have let him sit home alone through this. New John likely wouldn't notice at all. And either way, what did that matter?

John wasn't an option. Bill Wiggins was his option.

The lock did finally give, in the end. Sherlock sprawled on his side, each and every scrape of the metal against his torn wrist an electric shock of gasp-inducing agony, Wiggins apologetic and all but frantic behind him, wincing every time Sherlock choked, and when the boy eased it back after an eternity of mistakes and mishaps and bone-deep scrapes against his destroyed wrist was all he could do to not bloody _cry._

He wasn't here. He was not just this side of passing out on a filthy mattress in the worst part of London, he was not shackled in a Serbian dungeon, and he was not handcuffed alone in the frigid metal basement of a factory from last century. He was at his first crime scene. Buried in his thickest dressing gown and hugging the Union Jack pillow to his stomach, comfortably clean and warm with his violin in unblemished, undamaged hands. Curled up on the terrace, safe and in no pain whatsoever. His first crime scene that hadn't actually had a terrace, but embellishments and remodeling were allowed, in the palace, and right now he was on the terrace of his first crime scene and that was all that mattered.

"This- bloody hell, Shezza, this looks- are you sure you don't want to go to hospital? Christ. This- oh, god, I can _smell it-"_

"If you're going to insist upon either this swooning or such mollycoddling, I _will_ go to my old dealer, who, believe me, won't care what state I'm in, so long as I'm paying him." He ducked his head into collar further, sucking in a deep breath. First crime scene. Terrace. John. Mrs. Hudson's tea. Terrace. John. "There's. Also."

Pause.

"...I can't move my hands well enough, and there's something in my left ear. Get it _out."_

The disgusting, abhorrent object was removed. Wiggins continued to look askance, even moreso when the removal of its violation was enough to make his head sink and his shoulders shudder so violently he felt the scream in his wrists.

Sherlock didn't look to see what he did with the earplug, and he didn't care.

It didn't hurt much, and that was really all he cared about.

Wiggins helped him change, entirely embarrassing and deleted immediately. He somehow managed to keep his scarf knotted around his neck even as his ruined dress shirt was exchanged for a flimsy dressing gown and his trousers for track pants that must have once belonged to someone else because they didn't fit _Sherlock_ , never mind Wiggins. It was miserable and dreadful, and there was a portion of his head where all he could think about was how much more bearable this would've been if it was John.

 _No,_ he snapped at it. _If this was John he would've already sent you to hospital and you know it._

_Stop it._

It wasn't until the boy was helping to guide his arms around, both shoulders locked miserably in position after weeks of being held there, that the next offer came- the one he'd already sniffed out from a dozen miles away.

"I can get you a paracetamol, if you want." Wiggins looked at him carefully, panting in and out through clenched teeth, new clothes already dampening with a sheen of sweat as he moved one arm, bit by bit, to rest in his lap. He licked his lips, slow and evaluative. "Or something a little more... helpful."

Sherlock wanted it.

Sherlock, like every other time in his life of when things had gone badly, _wanted it._

He actually bloody _deserved_ it, in his expert opinion. Didn't he? Two torn rotator cuffs, the new wreck of ligaments and tendons, his hands a gruesome, bloody mess- he _deserved it,_ no matter what Mycroft would tut about him _going back on the sauce._ He deserved a painkiller tantamount to morphine, to which heroin was nothing more than a chemical sister.

John wouldn't even be surprised.

Sherlock breathed in deeply, hating himself with every fiber of his being, and shook his head.

"The gesture is appreciated. And... not entirely unwelcome," he muttered, staring at the flex of his swollen, misshapen hands in his lap. Oh, the number of experiments he was going to be able to do! Well. Would be able to do, if he could move his fingers to investigate his own lacerated flesh. Which he decidedly could not. _Ah, the tragedy of missed opportunity..._ "And I have the right to change my mind at a later date, but at the moment, no. Keep it away from me- I need to think."

Wiggins nodded once, looking somewhat unsurprised, but perhaps that was just his preoccupation with his hands. With a snarl, Sherlock worked himself further backwards to the center of the mattress, kicking the blankets into a suitable approximation of _around him_ and tucking his hands into his lap like a pirate's treasure. John would've tutted at him, pulling the blankets up himself even if it got him insulted for it. John would've gotten him proper morphine and would be explaining exactly what was wrong with him right now. John would be... what the hell did he care, what _John would be._

"You'll do best, now, to mind your own business, and go stare at gore videos on youtube instead of me, if you remain so inclined. I'm going to sleep, and I don't do it with people watching me." He dropped to lie down, his first mattress in a month, and _god_ it was the most comfortable thing he'd ever seen. _Never moving again! Never ever! Go away, Mycroft!_

"And fetch my laptop from Baker Street," he muttered, just before the boy had made to slip out the door. He curled closer around the pillow, pressing his face to the ratty thing as close as he could get. "I have research to do."

Research, certainly. He did have research to do. Into who, exactly, those men were, and how they had extorted Mycroft, and fleshing out what meager deductions he had managed to make to have something serviceable to deliver to Scotland Yard. Possibly he'd seek out a an underground server to send Mycroft a message letting him know the new turn of events; possibly not- all this _was_ his fault, after all, and he really did deserve to squirm for it. Likely he'd use John's login to search medical journals as well, for articles on long-term nerve damage after extensive use of handcuffs.

He had his work cut out for him, yes.

But the last thought Sherlock had, before burrowing at very long last into the tightest ball that he could, tucked in and miserable as Wiggins flicked the lights and his body, at the very long last, gave out, was not about any of that at all.

_I have a book to read._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always welcome and appreciated!


	3. Baby Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments/kudos! If you celebrated, I hope you all had wonderful holidays! 
> 
> Onwards!

**June 24 2014**

* * *

Fact:

Sherlock was going to _kill_ Bill Wiggins.

Fact. Indisputable fact.

* * *

It was not entirely dissimilar to his typical post-case adrenaline crash. Which, in a way, was _exactly_ what it was. His brain going offline in a way he had been told many times in his life was Not Normal, his particularly unique neurochemistry balanced from one extreme to another in way child psychiatrists had wished to Medicalize and Medicate, his circadian rhythms as broken as they'd ever been.

Or, in other words:

He slept for seventeen hours, woke up ravenous, his mouth dry as a bone, badly needing to piss, and with a dull pain throbbing through just about every inch of him.

Everything still hurt.

Sherlock left his eyes closed, and buried his face back into the thoroughly bedraggled pillow for a long time.

 _"WIGGINS!"_ he bellowed.

At least the heroin crash would've lasted longer, and made him feel even more dreadful.

"Oh? Rise and shine, sleeping beauty. Thanks for gracing me again with the charming joy of your presence."

Sherlock slid his gaze sideways, and glared at the creak of the door and the blur of Wiggins' outline straight through his lashes.

He was too eternally miserable to do anything other than grunt.

Wiggins huffed, long lines still sloped and casual at the head of the room. "You know you slept for so long that I had to check and make sure you were still breathing?"

"Then I thank you for your expert medical care." His voice came out as a rasped growl in his throat, low and cracking and nothing more than a death's rattle, and to swallow felt like a cactus had been shoved down his throat. _God._ "Do I have a radial pulse, then?"

"A what?"

Sherlock snarled at him again, huffed into the ratty blanket pulled close to his neck. _Make a deduction_ , he groused wordlessly, already set about the arduous ordeal of sitting up. His back was sore, his legs were numb, his skull felt as if it was trying to cave in all about the vein throbbing right in his temple. Ow. Ow, ow, _ow._ It took a miserable wriggle of his hips to knock the blanket back, exposing the ruined wreck of his hands to curl limply in his lap. Ow, ow, _ow._

"Oh," Wigging muttered. Must have made that deduction after all. "No, I don't know. Didn't have to check. You snore when you're out cold, Shezza."

"I most certainly do _not."_

"Then you've got a noisy hedgehog hidden under the sheet, there?"

"Shut _up."_ He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling through clenched teeth. "Help me up."

His hands- were improving. Marginally. Oh, they still looked absolutely dreadful, two deep, crusted grooves about both wrists, red and black and smeared with blood, swollen and discolored, but already, some sensation had returned. Fourth and fifth digits especially, both hands, both fingers stiff and sore but able to move, able to be curled and be flexed. They _hurt,_ but hurt meant he could feel them. Hurt meant he could move them.

His hands were getting better.

They had now been free for a significant period of time. Whatever function that was able to return without medical intervention-

This was it, then.

Sherlock swallowed, kept his hands cradled protectively in his lap, and shoved it all out of mind.

His hands were numb, and his legs were boneless and weak as jelly, and his head went from empty as cotton fluff to sloshing sideways so nauseatingly he just about threw up. "Stop," he gasped, elbow nudged to Wiggins' stomach. "Need- need a- second-"

"Are you... Christ, Shezza, you're about to fall over-"

"I'm-" Wiggins grabbed for his arm, at the elbow, at least, bless what sense he had, but then he pulled it up and around his shoulder and Sherlock was left to buck backwards, his mind whited out in an ephemeral blanket of agony. "- _hng! Hhhh- hahhh-..."_

"You're encouraging me to call Dr. Watson, you know. Not that you don't terrify me, 'n all, but. Your Dr. Watson scares me more than you do, because I know you won't _actually_ kill me, and he-"

"You oughtn't be so sure of yourself," he gasped, infused with every last bit of dredged up venom that he could muster, and slammed the door to the loo shut with his heel.

At least one part of him still worked.

* * *

"Soup! _Soup!"_

"Well, I'm not exactly Gordon Ramsay here, mate."

"What about my current condition makes you think I can consume _soup?!"_

"Oh, come on, don't throw it at me, Shezza-"

"I am not physically capable of throwing it, which is precisely _the problem,_ so unless you wish for me to starve to-"

"Will a smoothie do?"

"A smoothie. A smoothie! A most pedestrian, mundane- such, such a frail, puerile attempt at ingenuity- as if I have the taste buds of a child, or the-"

"You're getting a smoothie."

* * *

"My laptop, Wiggins. At the risk of sounding redundant: _deliver it to me."_

"Are you bloody serious? I can't even get near your flat. Between your housekeeper and Dr. Watson-"

"She's not my housekeeper."

"Yeah? Well, she chased me off this morning and told me she didn't want any junkies prowling about that _young man-_ you're older than me, you know, Shezza, _young man-"_

"Is the point of this meandering recounting that you do _not,_ in fact, despite my explicit instructions, have my laptop?"

"...yeah. Pretty much. Yeah."

"Then what, exactly, _is_ the point of you?!"

* * *

"Shower."

"Hm?"

"You heard me."

"No, yeah, I did. See, I was just a bit confused, because you're supposed to be a genius 'n all, but that was a real stupid thing to say."

...

"You sound like a dog, growling like that."

_"Wiggins."_

"Did you mean to say, 'bath? Because I don't fancy cracking my skull when I fall, and leaving my poor friend Wiggins running from Dr. Watson for dear life, and every time I've tried to stand up so far I've ended up falling on my face?' Because, that, that's much more intelligent, and _that,_ I might be inclined to-"

"I am going to kill you."

* * *

_"AND GET ME A BLOODY PARACETAMOL!"_

* * *

His first shower in a month, then.

Bath.

_Oh, whatever._

Sherlock tucked his knees closer to his chest, chin carefully, excruciatingly balanced, for the absolute minimum of pain. He exhaled once, a breath deep from his chest, and watched the surface of the grimy water ripple.

Nothing like sitting in his own slowly liquefying filth to feel clean.

Day three.

Improvements: some recovered sensation in his hands.

That was... about it, now.

Well, he _was_ a bit steadier, at least. He could stand without assistance, and manage a blasted _smoothie_ on his own, now. Not as steady as he had hoped, but level-headed, and able to corral his thoughts into order and begin to seriously consider his options at hand, rather than just lick his wounds and curl like a kicked dog.

Wiggins should get a dog. Bloody wonderful creatures, dogs.

He was still shaky on his feet. Shakier than he was used to, than was tolerable, and wasn't that really the kicker? He hated it, when John would tether him to an IV in the flat, when he'd tut and only make the tea if Sherlock agreed to rest in bed, to not take out his own stitches, but of course he'd never minded how vastly his various recovery times had improved by living with a doctor. He'd complain every hour while the IV was in, but, as John had so kindly noted, immediately shut up about it, when it meant he was up and running in a mere matter of days instead of a week.

Which was, again, neither here nor there, because John had not patched up any injuries of his in over two years, barring those of extreme necessity, and had previously made it quite clear he had no interest in sticking around to patch up any injury of his ever again. So, if his mind could quit _scrounging up_ irrelevant and unhelpful comparisons at every opportunity, that would be quite appreciated, _thank you._

Sherlock exhaled a second sigh over the water, which was now turning dark with blood and filth, and sank even deeper downwards. The water rose up to his neck, hands turning numb even as his back kept throbbing. Maybe if he slipped even lower, slipped all the way down until even his head went under, he could sleep and when he woke up, he'd have the answer to his way out of this. The only right thing to do, that would fix it all.

He blew a breath across the water a third time.

The sound of footsteps and low conversation came in through the paper thin walls, the voices too soft for deduce anything of note. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and simply dialed the channel down into background, white noise input. Wiggins was free to bring whatever company over that he liked, so long as they kept out of his way.

Maybe he'd get lucky, and _company_ would have a laptop for him to lift and borrow, since Wiggins had still been unable to fetch his own.

Quiet, for a while. Sherlock let his eyes slip half-lidded, relaxing as much as he could manage in the heat of the water, and let his brain slip back into recharge mode.

"Well, you're a sight for sore eyes, aren't you, Sherl?"

Jesus Christ.

No, he did _not_ start so violently that water splashed onto the floor, into his eyes, and a little bit down his throat, thank you very much.

Anna Erwin. Homeless network addition: 2010. Currently not homeless, actually, but still a reliable contact, and had been one of the people to aid him in faking his suicide. Former nurse who'd lost her credentials to an opioid problem, currently clean, but looking just twitchy enough being here that a relapse was currently in question.

And Wiggins, looking particularly proud of himself, lurking just behind her.

For god's _sake._

"What," he growled, " _exactly,_ about the instruction _this must be secret,_ did you misinterpret to mean _tell other people?"_

"Probably the part where you're in need of medical attention and are insisting on being a stubborn git about it, despite having a live-in physician in your flat." She challenged him with nothing more than a raised eyebrow, still lingering in the doorway but quite clearly intent on going nowhere but forward. Wiggins was nudged off almost immediately, an elbow backwards sending him scurrying back out of sight and Sherlock left entirely too exposed, and not at all pleased about where this evening was shaping up to go.

Why couldn't anyone ever leave well enough alone?

He did not need to be exmained. He did not need to be diagnosed. He did not need to be fed pills. He did not need everything that was wrong with him to be slapped a label.

He did not want to be touched.

It was already a lost cause- that much, at least, Sherlock was sure about. Still, his pride could permit nothing less than an affronted lift of his head, sitting stiffly and dripping as the former nurse walked straight forward to sit beside him. "I am in as adequate a condition as can be-"

"Sure you are," she returned, and slipped a thermometer in past his parted lips before he could get to _go away._ "Wait until it beeps. Any head injury?"

New plan: never make acquaintances with anybody remotely related to the medical profession ever again.

_Ever._

_"No,"_ he snarled, or as close to it as could be done, when speaking around a thermometer jabbed so rudely into his mouth. Which did she want, him to answer her questions, or him to sit here quietly obediently and let his non-existent fever be measured? _Honestly._ "'nd-" he slurred, "if you _must_ know-"

"If it's an insult, I don't, Sherl. Chin up."

Sherlock kept his mouth clamped shut, and though it took every single scrap of self control that he had, lifted his head, to allow two fingers to press to his wet skin in search of his pulse.

He also dearly wished that looks could kill, and spent his time glowering so intensely they might as well have.

He really was going to kill Wiggins for this.

The thermometer was removed, under two minutes in. No fever- which he could have _told her,_ if she'd _asked-_ but his hopes were dashed, upon the stern promise that Wiggins was going to be checking that daily, and delivering a course of prophylactic antibiotics that she fully expected him to take and not tongue. "Inhale," she instructed, one hand hovering over his side, then frowned. "That hurt?"

"Of course it does. Don't ask questions to which you already know the answer."

"You know, the one thing I don't miss about nursing? Patients like you." She prodded for a moment again, then sat back on her heels, surveying him with a critical frown. "You're going to want to make a point of breathing deeply, even though it hurts. Breathing shallowly increases your risk of developing pneumonia, which, in your condition, is the last-"

"Do you think John has not already given me this instruction a dozen times? I _know,_ Anna." He sucked in a huge breath in through clenched teeth, just to prove the damn point, and swallowed the whimper by sheer force of will. "I'm not going to get pneumonia."

"If you'd prefer John to be the one telling you all of this, then just speak up." She gestured for him to sit forwards, a little, her gaze already shifted to land on his shoulders. His swollen, abused, miserable excuses for shoulders.

This part, Sherlock really had not been looking forward to.

His hands, still, were almost entirely numb. His shoulders were... decidedly not.

One month straight spent with his arms bound behind his back had taken its toll.

Sherlock, again, kept his gaze turned firmly away. He didn't want to see the look on her face, as she gently, feather-light, probed his skin. It wouldn't take Sherlock Holmes, to deduce what the quiet frown meant. The wariness of her fingers, the soft breath in, the disapproving tut of her tongue.

It wouldn't take Sherlock Holmes, to deduce what it all meant, and it wouldn't take Dr. John Watson, to deliver the diagnosis that something was _wrong._

He hoped Mycroft would personally rip out the shoulder joints of every single vagrant responsible for what had been done to him. And if the strain was- permanent. If the pain and limited function was not something that Mycroft's personal team of flying surgeons could fix.

Well, then, he might just purchase a rubbish primary school plastic violin, just for the pleasure of smashing it over the heads of said vagrants himself.

"Well?" he growled, when the silence had just stretched on, and on, and _on,_ and the drip of the water was carving holes in his skull. "Do you have a worthwhile diagnosis? Or was it a waste for Wiggins to involve you after all?"

She did not, however, rise to the bait.

Anna sat back on her heels after several seconds, just watching him again. Watching him with narrowed eyes that Sherlock avoided meeting at all costs, his head leaned very carefully back to balance the pressure on his shoulder blades as exactly as he could manage it. His hands ached and stung, and his chest throbbed, and every beat of his heart pulsed with agony that screeched through his entire wrecked body.

He was really quite fed up with _hurting_

"I don't know what you want me to say, Sherl," she sighed, at last. To her credit, she actually did sound sad. Her gloves were pulled out with a wet _snap,_ and Sherlock kept his eyes averted and his back as relaxed as he could force it. "I'm a former nurse. You need imaging studies, an orthopedic specialist and surgical team, and a fully staffed OR. If you refuse to go to hospital, then there's nothing I or Wiggins can do for you. Keep them as immobile as you can, and if heat or ice packs alleviate pain, use them liberally. Sleep on your back, and accept whatever help you need. If it hurts to move them, then _don't move them._ "

 _"Obviously,"_ he spat. This was _exactly_ why he'd told Wiggins that he would be fine, that seeking out medical aid _wasn't necessary,_ this was _exactly why_ he hated going to hospital at all and just wanted John _._ What the hell use was a medical degree, if only used to command him not to strain himself?! Had he not already spent the past several days recuperating and recovering as peacefully as humanly possible?! Had he not already been _good,_ for once; had he not spent two years proving as a legally dead international spy that he could take care of himself?!

"You're not going to look at my hands, then?"

Anna shook her head, still settled back a little ways, not making to leave just yet, but not continuing the examination, either. Probably to help him up, when the eventuality came that it was necessary. "You can barely even move your arms. I'm not going to put you through an exam just to repeat what I just told you about your shoulders."

He grunted, glare still averted sideways. "Small mercies, then."

It was not precisely the gratitude, that was probably deserved.

She was right. The agony of having his hands examined now had crept a cold sweat down the back of his neck for the past five minutes. And for what purpose, then?

She couldn't tell him anything that he didn't already know.

Possible nerve damage, possible loss of function, possible chronic pain...

He squeezed his eyes shut again, and refocused on the measurement of his breaths, one after the other.

"Thank you," he gave, finally.

His eyes were still shut, but even then, he could hear the slight stiffening: a movement of surprise. He wondered just what it said about him, that a simple _thank you_ was so unexpected.

"...You're going to want to stay clean," Anna returned, after several seconds. Clearly sensing, and correctly at that, that it was best to continue without throwing a national parade for the bare minimum of obligatory politeness. "Since there's nothing life-threatening, if you end up with a dirty tox screen, most surgeons will want to wait until-"

"I am clean. I'm staying that way." He breathed deeply again, eyes cracked open to search over the pale lengths of his arm, wet and bare and limp. His gaze traced the fading remnants of track marks. Remembering the flicker of heat and shame, as John's thumbs had done just the same. "I had- an unpleasant experience, with heroin. While I was away. I'm clean, and I'm staying that way."

There was another startled moment of silence.

He really did hate heroin.

"That's... good, then."

Drip. Drip. Drip.

"....that's that, then. I suppose."

"Yes," he murmured, breath skittering across the soapy film of the water. Please, dear god, let it be _that._ He still tired, easily. It was a horrible, loathsome fact, but it was true, and he was exhausted now. The sooner he chased her off, the sooner he could force down one of the smoothies Wiggins had procured for him, just about all the nutrition he could manage, currently, and get back to sleep.

He'd complained at Wiggins, for being unable to get his laptop so far. But sitting here like this, he could admit- not aloud, of course- that it was honestly for the best. Sherlock badly needed to research any number of terribly urgent things, but at the moment, he could barely keep his brain switched on and running at half capacity.

He had just spent the last month handcuffed and immobile in a freezing box of a room: the mere thought of trying to work just now was enough to make him want to crawl under a mountain of sheets and never come out.

Perhaps that was the real reason, Wiggins hadn't handed over his laptop yet.

"I'll be off, then," Anna told him, clearing her throat. She stood, her bag pulled back over her shoulder, hands twitchy and tight about the strap, again; uneasy, about crossing back through the flat he knew was overrun with drug paraphernalia. "I've given Wiggins the course of antibiotics, that you'll be taking. You need to keep an eye on your hands, as well. Any discoloration, even just a little, even just at the fingertips, and you need to get yourself into an A&E. Do you hear me, Sherl? Not Dr. Watson, but a proper-"

"John has made it quite clear that he no longer wishes to be involved in my affairs in any capacity. He is not to be involved any more, so if you and Wiggins could cease bringing him up at every opportunity, that would be _quite welcome."_

There was another ringing silence. A distant echo, in the throbbing emptiness of his skull, hollow in the space of his chest.

Something just a bit like loneliness, clenching inside and out.

Loneliness. Sherlock shook his head to himself, scoffing in his throat. What sentimental tripe. Was that what this was? He had been alone by choice for the near entirety of his life, had been completely, utterly _alone_ for the past two years straight, not even a nagging brother or not-your-housekeeper landlady for company, and yet he had the gall to want to complain about being _lonely_ now? With Wiggins in the next room and Anna chattering right in his face? Nonsense.

_Friends protect people._

_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._

"...Sherl?"

Sherlock kept his eyes shut.

_Gooooo. Awayyyyyy._

"I know you're keeping us in the dark, about- whatever this is. But whatever disagreement you had with John, I think-"

" _I_ think you should consider your next words very carefully, and remember that I did not ask for your opinion on any of this." He tilted his head back in an almost-slam, the whole of his miserable body so disgustingly, horrifying sore he wanted to die. "John has made his wishes quite clear, and I would ask that you respect that."

"...I was going to say, that perhaps you need to give John another chance to explain himself- whatever it is that he said before. Because for someone who you claim doesn't want to be involved, he's been very busy, these past couple weeks. Looking desperately for you."

...

John was... looking for him?

No. No, surely not. John had made his feelings very plain, the night he'd walked out. Sherlock shook his head to himself, trying to clear the cobwebs out, the confusion of a puzzle he could not solve, because it did not make _sense._ Why would John-?

No.

_Preposterous._

Or, rather...

Expected.

Ah, yes.

_Of course._

Sherlock sniffed, willing his shoulders back relaxed, the stiffness out of his chest, and the sudden, traitorous lurch of his heart, gone. How silly. How _quaint,_ Mycroft would say. _Oh dear god- look at the poor man._ So easy to rile his hopes up. For all that caring was not an advantage, sentiment a fatal weakness in the losing side, he still found himself this susceptible, didn't he?

Even after all that it had cost him.

Of course John had been looking. Because John was a _good man,_ and therefore would feel awfully about this whole affair. Nothing more than that. Wouldn't want to end things on such a sour note, no, there was a sense of obligation, now, the mistaken belief that this was his fault, the guilt, the unwillingness to up and vanish while Sherlock was hurt.

What there wouldn't be, was a genuine change of heart.

What he had done would still be considered unforgivable.

_Alone is what I have._

_Alone protects me._

What nonsensical _rubbish._ It'd been such a blatant lie, when he'd said it to John, two years ago.

He'd never have imagined that the cost of bringing down Moriarity's network would be making that statement turn true.

"Thank you for the antibiotics," he murmured. "I assure you, I will get myself properly seen to if my fingers begin to turn black and blue."

That, he determined, was as close to a dismissal as he could wrangle, without being outright rude.

He really didn't care, whether he was outright rude or not. Ordinarily, at least. There was hardly a sense in even bothering to try- John had made it quite clear that those efforts had culminated in nothing at all but abject failure.

He was growing tired, of _trying._

But, she had done this for him, so this was the least he could do in return.

* * *

She did leave, after that.

He dedicated the next fifteen minutes of soaking in cooling bath water to willing his heart rate to slow, and convincing that traitorous, tiny whimper of fragile, sentimental hope in the back of his head to wither back and die.

* * *

**| R E W I N D |**

**May 20 2014**

* * *

**Blog of Dr. John H Watson**

Possible Changes (part two)- May 19 2014

Sorry, just a brief head's up after my last post, which I realise now was a bit alarmist, which was absolutely not my intention. Everything's fine. However, recent developments have complicated matters, so I'm not able to comment further about any of this at this time.

Additionally, Sherlock is going to have to take a brief hiatus on clients, at the moment. He's off on his own, as usual, I don't know where or doing what. All I know for sure is that he's fine, and he's not here. Which means he can't take any private clients here at Baker Street until he is. As I said in my last post, I'm not going to be doing case write-ups, anymore, but I know we're a little out of the way for some of you, and wanted to save anyone thinking of coming down the wasted trip.

I'd apologise on his behalf, but anyone who's met Sherlock knows he's not sorry.

Comments asking about what's going on between me and Sherlock, or those trying to convince me to stay, aren't going to get an answer. It's no one's business but our own.

* * *

John, it seemed, was not the only person to doubt Sherlock's sudden disappearance.

He watched the other officers around the room during Lestrade's debrief, tuning out everything that he had already heard in favour of gauging the group's atmosphere. No one had outright spoken up yet, of course. Lestrade was giving his presentation, not taking open dissent, and this was a professional office environment. No one was just going to off and stand up and announce they thought their boss was off on a wild goose chase of _wrong._

John could see the dissenters, though.

Donovan was especially tight-lipped about it, her arms folded as she sat and listened with a stoney face. John almost laughed, at that. He'd spent two years disliking her, two years after that outright hating her, and now she probably was the only one in this room who he'd agree with.

There were a few others who looked fidgety, at least. This was a small meeting still, only Lestrade's direct underlings involved, but he could glimpse a few of them who were clearly suspicious and not bothering to hide it. Officers who Sherlock had been particularly vicious too in the past, mostly; one of whom he was pretty sure owed his divorce to the consultant.

Lestrade, of course, was having none of it.

The meeting had gone much as John had expected. So far, he had heard nothing that he hadn't already known. Really, it was all quite simple- simple and pitiful, because it was only simple because that covered all the evidence the Yard had: they had _nothing._

Dull, Sherlock would say.

_Dull._

Sherlock had gone missing on the May 14, his abduction caught on CCTV and tracked down by his abandoned mobile. John had watched the video for himself, grudgingly at first, glaring at the laptop in Lestrade's office, but then once again just a few minutes ago in this meeting, with a telling pit sinking in the depths of his stomach. Sherlock had been assaulted by four professionals in the middle of the night, the detective forced down and out for the count before he could get more than a single punch into it. Then, with an air of efficiency so stark it was chilling, John had watched as his friend was hauled up, stuffed into the boot of a car, and driven straight away and out of sight.

No faces or license plate had been caught on camera. The car had escaped the CCTV network in barely two minutes after Sherlock had been stashed in it, its trail left ice cold even if Lestrade hadn't caught onto it three days late. Forensics had turned up nothing helpful whatsoever.

It had now been five days.

There was, still, no sign of him.

And John- well.

Just what, exactly, was John supposed to think?

On one hand, sure. It was _plausible._ Being kidnapped off the street by secret assassins and vanishing into thin air; if it happened to anyone, it happened to Sherlock Holmes. That was just the sort of crazy life that he led, and if it turned out to be true- of course it did. Of _course._ That was why John had moved in in the first place, wasn't it? He'd missed the excitement of the war, and Sherlock had been his own personal, pocket-sized, portable warzone. Of _course_ he'd gotten kidnapped out of nowhere like that.

But, on the other...

John scowled, still listening in as he watched Lestrade go over Sherlock's list of known boltholes and crackhouses, each one already scoured top to bottom, each one already confirmed: no Sherlock here.

That would be just _real awfully convenient_ of him, wouldn't it?

They had a fight. John- had said some pretty bad things. He could admit it now. Things that he shouldn't have said. They'd both said cruel things. John, in a decision he still could not bring himself to regret but had absolutely been made in the heat of the moment, posted publicly that he was moving out. Needed a _clean break._

And then, Sherlock just happened to turn up missing.

It was his fault, then, wasn't it? They'd argued; if they hadn't argued, if John hadn't said what he had, then Sherlock wouldn't have been out there to be kidnapped. And how did those kidnappings tend to turn out, then? He'd need medical attention, surely. Wouldn't go to hospital, because he never would. John was to feel obligated to stick around, _just for a few weeks,_ surely, to look after him, just until Sherlock was back on his feet, and meanwhile Sherlock would be doe-eyed and innocent about it all. Putting his manipulative silvertongue and those bloody puppy dog eyes to catastrophic use, convincing John he really ought to just stop this nonsense and _stay,_ because _oh, you know I'm lost without my blogger, John... except for the two year when I let you think I was dead and it was your fault, John..._

John frowned deeply again, his glare focused now on the conference table, and kept his mouth shut.

Right.

"You're sure that's what this is, then?" Donovan asked, when the rundown had finally been concluded. Careful and professional, her hands folded together on the table and her eyes perfectly impassive. If John hadn't known her history with Sherlock, he wouldn't have guessed this was anything more than a normal case. "Holmes doesn't exactly hold a 9-5. And he _does_ have a history with drugs, and has already staged a very public and performative fake suicide once. How are we sure that this isn't more of that?"

From the immediate murmur of agreement, from her side of the room, it was clear that she was not the only one thinking it.

Lestrade's face betrayed nothing, at this. Not even a hint of an impatient waver, as if he had prepared for this and then some. The same quietly tolerant stare, in fact, that John had been on the receiving end of, these past few days. "Currently, what we have is camera footage of him being abducted, right off the street. If this were anyone other than Sherlock Holmes, it wouldn't even be a question."

"Yes. But it _is_ Sherlock Holmes, so-"

"So we're going to investigate it as a kidnapping, because I'm in charge of this case, and that is what all the evidence points to." He let out a weary sigh, pinching at the bridge of his nose even at another round of disquieted murmuring, ones that John did not participate in but could more than sympathize with. "If it turns out this is some grand scheme of Sherlock's again, then I'll deliver the bill and summons for wasting police time to him myself."

"Yeah," Donovan murmured again, gaze skittering away and mouth a flat line of defeat; surrender, but she didn't have to like it. "Yeah, good luck getting the freak to pay it," and to this, there was more than one chuckle that nobody even bothered to disguise.

John didn't catch his own half-hearted, reflexive smile until a heartbeat after the comment.

No. He shook his head vigorously, wiping it off with as much force as he could muster, willing it gone, willing himself to feel worse about it, to feel the urge for more than a halfhearted glare, _anything_ beyond just sitting there with his eyes suddenly averted and his face warming with shame. _No._ Not good. Not funny. Not appropriate in any way.

This was why he had to move out. This _right here;_ it was why he just needed a clean break as fast as possible. Because he didn't _want_ to be the type of person who could call his friend a freak and then laugh about it, but the longer he stayed, with Sherlock's silences and repeated apologies and freak-of-nature indifference- there, _there;_ he'd just done it again!

That was it, John told himself. This had to be it. That was the line, and he'd crossed it, and unless he wanted things to only get worse, he was going to have to remove himself from Sherlock's influence before something happened that he could not take back.

"Well, then," Lestrade coughed, clearing his throat with a warning look about the room. "If that's all the questions-"

"Not quite, Inspector."

"You- Jesus Christ, Mycroft, how long have you been here?!"

And, enter Mycroft Holmes.

John heaved another sigh into his hands.

Just _great._

The British government himself was, indeed, standing just inside the door of the conference room. He gave off the very distinct impression of one who'd slipped in with the crowd just before it had started, and then lingered back like the sly snake that he was, eavesdropping as he blended in in otherwise silence.

It was a step up from just bugging the room, he supposed.

By the look on Greg's face, it was probably a massive surprise that Mycroft hadn't just done that to begin with.

John had actually not seen Mycroft in quite a while. In years, in fact; not even once since Sherlock's return. The periodic kidnappings had not been something that he had missed. He looked as prim and dapper as ever, umbrella sloping in his lax hand, three-piece suit putting them all to shame, a faint weariness about his eyes that John didn't remember from before. Perhaps age, perhaps the karma of being a smarmy, all-controlling bastard. Perhaps just the cost of existence, of being Sherlock's brother.

John might have felt bad, about some of the ways he'd been treating Sherlock, lately.

He _didn't_ have to feel bad about the reflexive curl of righteous anger that flooded through him, at the very sight of Mycroft Holmes.

The politician cleared his throat, in that bloody _way_ of his, so uppity and lofty and _smug._ "As you all now know, Sherlock Holmes has been missing for five days. While you and your Detective Inspector's interference in the matter is appreciated, it is, ultimately, unwarranted. The appropriate parties are already investigating."

Oh. Of _course._ A reflexive, bitter little smirk tore its ways across his face again, and this time he didn't bother to dredge up guilt about it. _Here we go again,_ he thought, already slumped back against his seat and hating literally everything about this.

Lestrade, at least, didn't seem all that impressed either. You could only be impressed by Mycroft's dog and pony show so many times, and it had probably worn out his welcome with Lestrade before John had ever been kidnapped by his first black car. "Unless that's coming as an order from the police commissioner, Mycroft, then we're going to keep investigating." He straightened the files spread before him with a snappy, militaristic _shnick,_ words frosty and the look on his face even colder than that. "Sherlock doesn't work for you, and neither do we. You don't get to call us off from trying to help him."

...all right, then.

Perhaps John _wasn't_ the only one still angry, with Mycroft Holmes.

"If you insist," Mycroft murmured, perfectly neutral. Feigning politeness, somehow, in that very public school way that unsettled everyone in the room. "Anthea will serve as liaison, for as long as it is necessary. You will, of course, pass along all relevant turns in your investigation through her."

"Oh, so like you have this whole time, then?"

There was another thick, uncomfortable silence. The kind that Sherlock tended to leave in his wake, but ten degrees colder. Even Donovan was back on her boss's side, staring up at the clearly unwelcome intruder with a degree of palpable unease, her eyes narrowed, her twitching ceased- and Mycroft, of course, immune to it all.

Whatever had happened between Mycroft and Lestrade, the frosty silence between them now was painfully reminiscent of what it was like for John to be in the same room as Sherlock.

It clicked.

John hadn't been the only one, to blame himself for Sherlock's suicide.

And Sherlock hadn't been the only one to decide to keep them in the dark.

Understanding flooded in. Understanding, and a new, unwilling sort of kinship with Greg.

Bloody Holmeses.

"Who... who exactly you are? This is a private meeting- sir, how did you even get here?"

Mycroft gave a haughty sort of sniff, barely treating Donovan to an askance glance. "That would be above your pay-grade, Sergeant." He cleared his throat with another swish of his umbrella, and that was that, the politician swiveled away and sweeping from the room in a manner almost as dramatic as Sherlock himself.

John was on his feet and trailing him out the door without a second thought.

"Mycroft! Hey- hey, _Mycroft!"_

Mycroft was ignoring him. Mycroft threaded wordlessly through the other officers milling about, his rapidly retreating back to John in that poncy way of his, like he was too good to even pay him the time of day.

"Mycroft, I'm talking to you!"

Mycroft still did not turn around. John was attracting attention with his raised voice, now, other DIs and officers glancing up and shifting uncomfortably, but partnering with Sherlock had gotten John very used to being stared at and right now, he really didn't give a toss.

"I'll follow you all the way to your car, Mycroft, don't think I won't! I will keep shouting at you all the way there! I'll stand on a street corner yelling into a CCTV if that's what it- damn you, look at me! _Mycroft!"_

But Mycroft still did not look at him. Mycroft continued to playact as if he'd gone completely and utterly deaf, striding away from John and clearly with no intention to address him whatsoever.

And John saw red.

By god, he had had just about _enough_ of being jerked around by the British government.

As a matter of fact, had had enough of it two bloody years ago.

He'd meant what he said: when Mycroft continued to ignore him, John continued to run after him, all the way until it ended with him squirming his way into a lift just about to close, and cornering the man with every last bit of unspoken threat that he could muster.

"You don't want to talk to me? Hm?" John took a step closer still, pressing nearer into his personal space. Mycroft didn't react to it, of course, he was better than that, but John knew better, too, and he advanced until he was close enough to be all but standing on that dammed umbrella. "What's this, then, Mycroft? You'll kidnap me when it's convenient for you, but when _I_ want something, you won't even stop to hear me out?"

People were staring, again.

The entire lift was already staring, a tense ring of officers all staring warily at John, ready to pull him back from the most powerful man in all of England. As if _John_ were a danger to _him._ As if John could do anything at all to Mycroft Holmes, and not find himself executed by a secret sniper before he got two steps out of the elevator.

Ha bloody _ha._

Mycroft's gaze swept over him, top to bottom to top again, one eyebrow raised. Everything about him, just radiating the most bored discontent in the entire world. "Dr. Watson," he drawled, and tugged his suit jacket straighter again. "Is there something you need to discuss with me?"

Everyone was still staring.

"Is this for real?"

Mycroft gave him another dismissive look, barely even out of the corner of his eye. "I'm not going to even dignify that with a response."

"No? It's a no, then, is what you telling me? Because the last time this happened, it was a no."

_The last time this happened, it was all a big, bloody game to you, wasn't it?_

_It was all fake, and you knew._

_You lied to me._

But Mycroft just continued to ignore him. The way that Sherlock ignored people, the way that said _you're not worth my time,_ when there was a whole room of police officers pooling their talents to hunt for his brother and John himself was just this edge of losing it, because whether he could forgive Sherlock or not the last thing he said to him was _not_ going to be- to be-

"It's something to do with _you_ , isn't it?" John inched a careful step back, glaring over the politician from head to toe. Of course it was, of course it was _Mycroft;_ what other explanation could there be? "That's why you're here, throwing your weight about, trying to get Greg to let it go. It's another one of your schemes, and that's if- if it's real at all-"

"If that's the case, Dr. Watson, then you know very well that there's no sense in asking, because I am not at liberty to say."

"You-" John reeled back another step, half spluttering with the indignation of it. He wasn't even trying to deny it. He deflected, he wouldn't give an outright yes or no, but he didn't even give a single attempt at a lie.

Jesus _fuck-_

"So it's true! This is something to do with you, then? One of your- _black ops schemes_ gone wrong, and- and you didn't even bother to say anything, just showed up here to obfuscate and lie, leave us chasing dead ends-"

The lift dinged, the doors slid open, and Mycroft was already on his way out.

No.

_No._

He was not going to stand for this again.

He was _done_ being ignored by these people.

"I'm not letting this go! You manipulative _arse,_ I called Sherlock heartless, but _you-_ you think you can play games with this, you show up here and won't even answer a single question- you're both _awful,_ do you know that? Manipulative, heartless bastards, that think we're all just pawns in your giant chess g-"

Mycroft turned mid-step, and caught John by the wrist so abruptly, his gaze meeting his in solid ice and his face barely an inch from his own, that for a moment, it felt like Sherlock.

"I would choose your next words _very_ carefully, Dr. Watson," he hissed. "Before you continue on, and insult my little brother to my face, _again."_

John stuttered breathlessly once. He opened his mouth, a fruitless sort of attempt at a rebuttal, then shut it again- the sudden hostility robbing him of anything it was he'd been going to say.

Mycroft stared down at him the way he might a bothersome fly or ant: utterly unbothered, and absolutely disgusted. His fist loosened from his arm, finger by finger, degree by degree, but the disgust did not retreat. In fact, he looked repulsed to even have to touch John in the first place.

"Let me make one thing very clear to you, Dr. Watson." He leaned closer, not touching, eyes a blank slate, but a whisper by his ear that was colder than ice and drilled a knife between John's ribs. "The only reason I have not removed you from this matter all together is because Sherlock has previously demanded that I do not interfere. But I have spent the last five months watching you decimate my brother more effectively than any primary school bully or small-minded police sergeant could have ever _dreamed_ of. He gave _everything_ for you, and your answer to him, was to take your pound of flesh for it. To take your pound of flesh from him, and then to take it again. To take it so many times there is all but nothing now for you to take. Believe me when I say it, Dr. Watson: if Sherlock had not explicitly forbade it, then I would have extracted your influence from his life _months ago."_

John tried to flinch back. To say something of a protest, or argue back, or- _anything_ at all. Words and oxygen were snuffed out in his throat, but he tried anyway, opening his mouth, but Mycroft's eyes flashed and five fingertips pressed to his chest, driving him backwards into the wall with such vehemence it was as if his heart had been carved out for serving on a silver platter.

Mycroft, it was now, undeniably, explicitly, horribly clear-

 _hated_ him.

"I may not have Sherlock's permission, to interfere in your- _partnership_ ," he sneered. The word came out as if it itself was something repulsive and foul, Mycroft's mouth curled around it, his eyes hard as flint. "But neither do I have any obligation to cater to you, and your continued insistence upon treating my baby brother as something found on the bottom of your shoe."

Mycroft released his arm fully, then, his hand falling loose with an angry jerk. He cleared his throat, eyes flashing and face twisted still, contorted into something livid and violent and _furious._

Something that felt a little like looking into a mirror.

And being nauseated at what he found.

With a deep inhale of a calming breath, Mycroft then turned on his heel, and left John standing there alone: numb inside and out.


	4. Reset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments/kudos, and happy 2020!
> 
> Notifications were on the fritz, when last I updated, but everything seems to be back to normal now. Hopefully, they'll stay that way. Also, because most people seemed to like him, protective!Mycroft will be back!
> 
> Onwards!

* * *

**| F O R W A R D |**

**June 27 2014**

* * *

At last, Wiggins retrieved his laptop.

It was a feat so magnificent that it was deserving of a hug. If Sherlock was currently capable of such a thing, without wanting to cry; if Wiggins was the type to ever want to be hugged; if Sherlock was the type to be able to hug someone without terrifying them.

He'd be sure to handhold him through the catalytic reduction protocol he was so interested in, instead. He was sure that was it. He remembered, because he'd had to slap Wiggins' hand anyway the last time he'd run it himself. The chemist's equivalent of a hug, he promised himself, tucked back into bed with a smoothie nudging at one hand, the warmth of his laptop cradling the other.

His hands still ached. The miserable throbbing of his wrists, still laced with deep and red purple sores; the persistent numbness of his hands that made unease curl further into him with each passing day, like a vine taking root, the one that made him feel unwell and murmured _John would know what to do, Sherlock._

He sighed.

Perhaps that hug would have to suffice, instead.

* * *

First thing first:

Resurrect the twitter handle he'd operated for his two years on the run.

There wasn't much for Sherlock to do, here. Just a few neutral, casual tweets, sent off to reestablish the account as active and nothing more. Retweeted a trending post of Taylor Swift's (who?), liked a promotion for the new Avengers movie (what? Didn't John like those? Or... perhaps that was Graham...?), retweeted another popular article about the new smash hit brand of lavender oil and why new mothers should consider it instead of vaccinations.

Then, Sherlock scrolled back up, and deleted it.

What? Even like this, he did have _standards._

It wasn't much. And there wasn't any risk, truly, of what could go wrong, even if he had chosen to be more explicit. Barring the compromising of an old social media account's worth for underground contact, and, well, there were several hundred reasons why Sherlock was not an active member of MI6, and that was one of them; he just really, really, did not _care._ But it wasn't much.

_Agent Lazarus back in action, and awaiting instruction._

Mycroft would get the message.

* * *

For the sixth time in as many minutes, google recommended an article about the Missing Hat Detective to him. He clicked on one and promptly swiped it off screen, just in the hopes to make them all go away.

There was a seventh waiting in under thirty seconds, and Sherlock briefly considered throwing his laptop out the window.

* * *

He opened John's blog.

Why? Why the _hell_ had he done that? What did he care, what John was posting, these days? If he was posting anything at all to begin with. Why had he-

Sherlock switched tabs before the page had finished loading, that loathsomely tight feeling slammed right back into his chest, and proceeded to steadfastly ignore the blog for the rest of the day.

* * *

"-do you have any idea how infuriating it is, the failure of so many academics to write _coherently,_ John; surely you understand the difficulty, with those inane posts you call a blog- sorry, _incredible_ posts-

"Neurapraxia. Axonotmesis. Write those down for me. Must research long-term prognosis for axonotmesis in the radial and ulnar nerves, but do stop looking at me like that; if necessary, I will actually attend physical therapy. For god's sake, John, I'm not an idiot-"

"All right, I'll probably only attend it for a short while. Until I've learned enough to do the exercises on my own.

"But my point still stands, John: I am not an idiot!

"Why can't your login come with a dictionary.

"Useless! Useless, John, this article is _useless!_

"Did you know, John, this article might actually be relevant for you? Published only last month; experimental trials into electrical stimulation, conduction tests confirmed a statistically significant improvement in sensation- Mycroft could get you into the trial if you'd like? I know it wouldn't mean anything for your surgical license, can't have a surgeon with a psychosomatic tremor, even if it _was_ cured by yours truly, but if you'd-"

"Shezza?"

Sherlock blinked.

"Who. Um... who exactly are you talking to?"

...ah.

There was another discomforting silence. Sherlock, decidedly business-like, shook his sleeves out over his hands, and kept his chin high, and his lacerated pride wounded and recovering at his core.

"You know that I carry on talking when you leave the room," he sniffed dismissively, swiping his newest tab away. Attempting to. With mostly numb and pained fingers, his swipes really weren't as dramatic as he'd hoped. "The average individual is an idiot, so their contributions or lack thereof to my thought process are of no consequence."

Wiggins said nothing in answer. Or, if he did, Sherlock deleted it outright, and ignored him without hesitation.

But the boy lingered for a minute longer, watching him in silence with guarded eyes, and Sherlock's skin crawled until he was gone.

* * *

There really wasn't any reason, to be using his Agent Lazarus handle.

The danger, Sherlock was sure, had already passed. The men who had taken him had made it very clear that whatever they had wanted out of Mycroft had been achieved; at that moment, whatever interest they'd had in him had completely expired. Nobody was scouring the internet searching for any hint of back channel communications relating to Sherlock Holmes, that was for sure.

There wasn't even any reason for him to be hiding here at all.

He supposed it was prudent to let Mycroft know, at least. Before he _completely_ bankrupted the Crown searching all of London for him.

He wasn't missing.

He just didn't want to be found.

* * *

He couldn't be seen like this.

* * *

The next time Sherlock was aware of Wiggins' presence, it was morning, and his stomach hurt in that telltale way, again. The way that John had tried to nag him meant _hungry- you've forgotten to eat again, Sherlock._

He absently tipped another few crackers into his mouth, and clicked onto the next article.

"Please tell me you haven't been doing that all night."

 _Hm. Don't remember._ "You're high."

Wiggins' eyes glittered, shiny and the pupils still dilated, his shoulders low and hands loose. "As such." There was no slur noticeable, not even to Sherlock's ears, but his loose gait as he sloped into the room identified the high as surely as the state of his bright eyes. Oh, he was high as a _kite-_ glorious. "That police bloke of yours was hanging around outside. I had to climb up the fire escape."

"Who?"

"I don't know; do I look as if I know?" Wiggins shrugged as he dropped to sit beside Sherlock, folding himself up into a ball of oversized hoodie and chemical highs. He passed something between his hands several times, pills, it looked like, his brow furrowed. "Think you called him Gavin, once."

"Oh."

 _"Oh,"_ Wiggins agreed. Then, wordlessly, handed the pills over to Sherlock.

Sherlock turned them over himself, inspecting the pair closely and even giving a precautionary sniff, before taking the risk to swallow them.

It was probably the antibiotics.

Probably.

Wiggins lingered on for a moment, legs long and folded on the floor, his dazed attention remaining completely and utterly distracted. "Dr. Watson wasn't with him, this time. Gavin. Which was nice. He's been known to threaten people, lately. He has a gun, did you know that? I don't like that he has a gun."

"Hm." _You wouldn't like how good of a shot he is with that gun, either._

There was another pause.

Lestrade. Here. Why?

John. Not here with him, but, evidently, often was. Why?

Sherlock's fingers twitched, and it hurt. "...Wiggins."

Wiggins hummed back. He reached out to grab a handful of crackers for himself, which was really just as well, since Sherlock had been mostly ignoring them, and had been planning on ignoring them for the rest of the day. "What's up, then?"

"Your opinion on John. As intelligent and concisely as you can manage."

For several moments, Wiggins did not answer. An impressive measure of restraint, as far as Sherlock was concerned; at least, for someone as intoxicated as he was. Sherlock kept his eyes down on his laptop screen, skimming yet another article on nerve damage and physical therapy and long-term use of restraints and prognoses, each sentence in tune to the dull throbbing in his wrists and the ghostly tinging in his hands.

"I don't like him. If you want me to be totally honest with you, Shezza."

Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eye, and kept silent.

Wiggins merely shrugged, utterly at ease and sans filter, courtesy of the heroin. His fingers fluttered in his lap, and he started to pick at them with glazed eyes, as if the conversation only occupied a quarter of his attention, at best. "He's seeming to be the reason that you're here, whatever that may be. I can deduce that much." He tilted his head to the side, speculative. "Would you like me to punch him for you? I could punch him for you."

"John would snap you in half."

"Yeah, well, that's another reason why I don't like him." He folded his legs tighter, lax and loose, then propped his chin up with a fist, staring at him with overbright eyes that gleamed with the dullness of the high. "Begging your pardon, though, I'd appreciate it if you two could just-" he wriggled his fingers, "-kiss and make up, if you please."

"John's not gay."

"Then hug and make up. Punch it out. Whatever it is you two do." He scooped up the very last of the crackers for himself in one especially grimy fist. "Because you're a bit scary, when you two fight, and he's a _lot_ scary, and overall I'm pretty sure you're happier when you're not moping around my place, so. You know." He gave his laptop an affectionate nudge, like it was an especially friendly dog, then turned his lazy grin on Sherlock, eyes still glazed in a high that was just a bit too enticing to be fair. "Ta, then, Shezza."

"For what, exactly?"

"You know?" His laptop earned another gentle nudge, and, _yes,_ all right, _fine,_ Sherlock was jealous. He was _jealous_ of the high. "I don't really recall."

Sherlock smirked. "Go sleep it off, Wiggins."

Swiftly, Wiggins did.

And if Sherlock's dismissal had been something approaching fond or affectionate, well, he certainly wouldn't be sober enough to remember it.

And then-

He scowled faintly down at his laptop again.

He was tired.

He wanted to go home.

And now, he really, really, _really_ wanted to get high.

But that wasn't an option, none of that was an option, none of that had been an option for weeks and likely wasn't to be an option ever again, so he kept his jaw tight and his throat swelled shut, his heart hammering as he instead honed his mind for a single purpose. His chest felt tight as he typed out the letters, one numb finger by one numb finger, exiting out of every other open tab until there was only just the one remaining.

He downloaded the pdf, frowning at it all the while.

Nothing else to it, then.

Wiggins would be asleep for hours, likely. And even if not, he was surely not going to be in any mood to be hovering around here for most of the rest of the day. Mycroft, if he took decisive action at all, was not going to be storming in to collect him until at least tomorrow. John and Lestrade, if they were looking for him at all, certainly weren't going to appear any time soon.

He was all out of excuses.

_I Believe in Sherlock Holmes_

_Dr. John H Watson_

Sherlock took a deep breath, and settled himself in to read.

* * *

**| R E W I N D |**

**May 25 2014**

* * *

**Blog of Dr. John H Watson- Unpublished Post (Last Edited May 25 2014)**

Untitled

Are you reading these posts, Sherlock? Are you faking this whole thing with Mycroft?

If you are, then I'm done. I'm serious. I'm done, Sherlock. I'm out, and I'm not coming back.

I know I said that I already was. And I meant it. Well. I mean it double, now. You know, how we'd say it as little kids, in primary school?

Who am I kidding. We both know you didn't play games like that in primary school.

If you're faking this, Sherlock, then I'm done.

I can't do this again. Did you ever realise, that's why I've been so upset with you? I can't live through this a second time. I couldn't live through it a first time, even, and now it's happening again. Do you know, I actually am hoping, just a little, that you're reading this from some posh safehouse set up by your brother? Seriously, if that's it, I think I really will strangle you again, I'll be so angry I'll want to knock your teeth down your throat but

I've already had to live in a world where you were dead once.

I'll take the one where you're an infuriating sociopathic posh fuck before I take that one, again. Even if I'm so mad at you I can't ever talk to you again, even if this is you faking it again after all, and I'm sitting here half-drunk on a Tuesday night scared out of my mind because you're a giant arse, I'll still take it if I can know that somewhere out there, you're okay.

If you were here right now, I don't even know what I'd say to you. But I know I want you to be okay. Whatever else happens after that- fine. But you have to be okay, Sherlock.

I can't do this again.

* * *

They stopped for a break two and a half hours into it. Greg settling back on the railing to separate the park from the street to lean back and smoke, and John beside him, shivering though it wasn't cold, rubbing his leg though it didn't hurt.

Much.

"Thought you quit."

"Yeah, well." He rolled the cigarette between his fingers, a trail of smoke curling up between them and, dreary, to the sky. "This is my last one."

John snorted, eyes rolling skyward, and did not reply.

He just mouth shut and his arms folded, and continued his staring across the vacant street.

Greg took another drag.

"So, we're almost wrapped up, then?" John asked at last, gaze shifted away. His words came out sounding curiously flat, even to his ears, but when he coughed and cleared his throat, all that changed was the sense of uneasiness seemed to settle even deeper in his chest. "You said two more locations to check, and then we'll call it a day?"

Greg nodded wordlessly once. He still wouldn't quite look at John, as if his entire existence, in that moment, had been narrowed down into the task of smoking that cigarette. John, in return, kept his gaze focused across the street, and allowed the space between them to slip back into silence.

They were searching the city for Sherlock. Or, as close to it as they could get.

Greg had known Sherlock for a lot longer than John had. Greg knew that when Sherlock was in trouble, the very last thing he tended to do was call the police, or call an ambulance, or anything at all approaching what a sane, logical, normal human being might do.

Sherlock tended to _hide._

So that was what they were doing.

Searching every bolthole that they had on the list. Hunting out any of the homeless that they could find, and asking if they had seen Sherlock. Investigating every corner of London that Greg knew, in the hopes of searching out the rock that the consulting detective just might have hidden himself under, and dragging him back from underneath it.

Greg did this every few days, it seemed. Sometimes with Anderson. Sometimes with other officers. Sometimes, entirely on his own.

This was the first time John had asked to come with him.

He still wasn't all too sure why.

"You still think this is a good idea, then?" he asked, burying his hands in his pockets. Greg definitely didn't deserve it, but he still couldn't help the note of impatience that crept in, blatant enough to be heard. God, they'd been out here for _hours._ "We know Mycroft's got an army of people watching all the CCTVs in the city now. What'll this turn up that he won't?"

"Believe it or not, Mycroft Holmes doesn't know everything, despite what he pretends." With a sudden angry huff, Greg pulled away, heel ground into the pavement and a second exhale of smoke as if John had just said something incredibly offensive. "Half the reason Sherlock set up boltholes in the first place was to have a place where Mycroft couldn't find him. And in any case, I trust Sherlock's contacts a lot more than I trust _him."_

All right, then. Unexpected landmine. Time to tread carefully backwards; call for a tactical retreat. Whatever was going on between Greg and Mycroft, John definitely did not want to be involved.

He hadn't seen Mycroft in days, either. Not since the confrontation at Scotland Yard.

The conversation where Mycroft had made it very, very clear exactly what he thought of him. That if it was his choice, he would never see his brother, ever again.

As if this was his _fault._

John suppressed another shiver, sucking his lower lip between his teeth in silence.

_Mycroft Holmes ought to shut his mouth._

"Mycroft and I-" Greg said suddenly, then stopped. His mouth twitched still into a scowl, his jaw and shoulders tight. Once again, he seemed unable to quite meet John's eyes. "Two years ago. We were involved."

"Involved."

"Yes. Yes, like _that."_

Being friends with Sherlock had improved John's ability to make his own deductions, he liked to imagine. He wasn't a genius, and he'd never be able to measure up to Sherlock even on his worst day, but he'd made strides, and Greg had dropped more than enough hints here for him to get it.

Still, it took John about five solid seconds of shellshocked staring, for it to _click._

"You," he gasped. "You and- _Mycroft."_

Mycroft Holmes. Greg Lestrade. _What the fuck._ Mycroft Holmes and-

"He's human, believe it or not," Greg said through a grimace; clearly, John had not been the first to react with utter and complete shock, at the words Mycroft Holmes and Relationship anywhere within the same sentence. City. Time zone. Galaxy. "Just like Sherlock is. They can pretend to be above it all if they want, but underneath it they're human. For whatever that's worth. I hadn't even seen him in months, before he showed up in that meeting a few days back." He pushed his heel back again with a sharp scrape, stiff and guarded, and suddenly, John was rather grateful that he'd given in to the urge to smoke that cigarette. "You know, I'd used to wonder, how he could seem to not even mind that I'd gotten his brother killed. I thought I was lucky, to be with someone so forgiving."

In the sardonic silence created in the wake of the declaration, John, once again, thought it was best to say nothing at all.

Now, he no longer had any question, about just exactly why the two had been so bitter to each other, that day at Scotland Yard,

Jesus Christ, and he'd thought what Sherlock had put _him_ through had been fucked up.

There was a pause between them again; Greg, clearly not knowing what else to say, perhaps just wanting to smoke without saying anything more at all. John really wouldn't have minded that, to be honest. But if he didn't say anything, he was going to keep thinking about Greg and Mycroft, and the look on Mycroft's face that day at the Yard, and-

Well, John had already been drinking enough at night, to try and avoid thinking about exactly what Mycroft had said to him.

"This is how it normally goes, then? Just- like this?" He gestured uselessly across the empty street, the sun already gone down and the crowds of the day's travel cleared to leave just them, alone there in the park. Greg smoking, and no Sherlock in sight. "You take a tour of London for a few hours, turn up nothing, then go home to do it all over again tomorrow?"

Greg took a second, decidedly unimpressed drag. Again, he said nothing.

There'd been more of that, too. John would make a comment that- well, he certainly wasn't _joking,_ at least, but- disparaging, probably, to someone who didn't know Sherlock. Who wasn't involved. And Greg would keep quiet, and just _look at him,_ as if he'd said something Not Good.

And John was getting really tired of it.

"You didn't have to come," the inspector pointed out, when the silence had gone on just long enough that John had thought he wouldn't answer at all. "If you think this is a waste of time, and that Sherlock's hiding out with Mycroft, then you're free to it. I didn't ask for your help."

"That's not- hang on. That's _not_ what I said. I'm fine doing this, just-" He breathed out a frustrated sigh, scrubbing a hand over his eyes, through his hair. God, when had things gone wrong like this? When had he started just putting his foot in his mouth, over and over, never able to get through a single conversation without unintended insult? Was this how Sherlock felt, when- no, of course not; Sherlock didn't _care-_ "You've done this, what, five times, now? After a full day at work, and- and you're just assuming that Sherlock's out there at all. That he got away from whoever did this to him, and that's if there a whoever at all, and it's not all just another of Mycroft's ploys. All for someone who doesn't even remember your bloody _name."_

Greg smiled, faintly, around his cigarette. Like there was a joke that only he had heard, though perhaps it wasn't very funny at all, because the smile looked sad and very little else.

He was still, for a moment.

"A few years ago," he finally said, "2011? 2011, yeah. A bit before you lads took that case out in Dartmoor, I think. I was getting my divorce, as you know."

"...Right," said John.

"My wife, my ex, she was coming for my pension. My solicitor told me she stood a solid chance at getting it, too. Divorce laws still favour the woman, no matter how much of a conniving, cheating- anyway," he coughed, exhaling a cloud that made his eyes sting. "I didn't tell anyone this at the time. No one even knew I was getting divorced until after it was done."

John fidgeted uncomfortably, feeling a bit wrong-footed and unsure of what to say. "I... I'm sorry," he offered, because what else was there to say? "That's... I'm sorry."

Greg chuckled to himself, shaking his head. "Funny thing, though- just a few days before the final mediation? She took it back. She withdrew her claim to my pension. The house. The car. Everything, actually- all she wanted to get back was her grandmother's china. Which I let her take, by the way." He shot John a humorless grin and pulled his cigarette free, leaving it to dangle and waft smoke up in warm swirls from his side. "Apparently, an anonymous private investigator wrote in with a somewhat terrifying assortment of evidence against my ex. Nothing illegal, no, but spot-on and so scary as hell that I think every divorce attorney in London was looking for him, for a bit- everyone wanted to hire the most brilliant PI to their own practice. But nobody could ever find him. Nobody could ever figure out so much as his name."

There was another stilted silence. Greg ground out the remains of his cigarette against the wet of the railing, just a quick twist of his thumb, and brushed ash aside to scatter on the pavement in a smattering of black flecks that the wind took and spirited away.

"He remembers the important things, John," he said quietly. "For some reason my name's not important, and. Can't lie, I'm not the world's biggest fan of that. But he remembers the things that matter."

Something cold, solidified in the pit of John's stomach, and his smile faded.

...right.

And he remembered one very disastrous Christmas party, with poor Molly Hooper in tears for an audience, and Sherlock, awkward and stilted as an inhuman mannequin, intoning, _I am sorry. Forgive me._ He remembered Sherlock giving him the upstairs bedroom two hours after meeting, not because he was self-centered dick who didn't care about the limp, because he was so arrogantly sure of his own ability to get rid of it, and, bloody hell, he'd been _right._

He remembered the soft look on his face, the genuine, crooked, actual _smile,_ to _nobody can fake being such an annoying dick all the time._

For the first time in what just might've been since Sherlock had come back from the dead itself, he let himself remember the good instead of just the bad, and oh, fucking hell, _fucking hell,_ he had really, really messed up, hadn't he?

He keeled over at the back, hands planted on his knees as he fought out a steadying breath past clenched teeth, and again, and _again._ He shook his head and clung to it the feel of the concrete beneath his shoes, the heat of summer making his collar itch, the sting of Greg's smoke wafting between them. It wasn't- no. No, he couldn't do this again, he'd prepared for this; this was exactly what he _didn't_ want to do. He didn't want to remember Sherlock brilliant and amazing because then he was going to get scared, and then he was going to get so scared that he missed him, and when they found him again and Sherlock would blink doe-eyed up at him from the ambulance and he'd be done for all over again. And he _couldn't_ do that. Not again. Not when Sherlock had destroyed him so keenly two years ago and didn't even seem to get it or care; how was he to know it wouldn't happen again? How was he just meant to _forgive and forget_ when Sherlock's plan had been to _die in his arms_ and leave him thinking he'd failed his best friend for two whole years? That he'd let him down, let him die, and all the while Sherlock had been-

"Fuck," he gasped. Then gasped it again: " _Fuck."_

"John- hey, are you all right? John, I... I didn't-"

"I don't _get it."_ He rubbed his face again, fingers trembling. God, if Greg needed a cigarette, then John needed a drink even more. His hands were starting to shake like Harry's, now. "Why am I the only one still mad at him? Why am I the only one still upset about what he did?!"

"...His suicide, you mean."

It wasn't wrong, even, but it _was_ the wrong thing to say, because his temper snared on it like a match and the words were suddenly spilling out from his mouth, a cascade of anger and hurt that he thought he'd swallowed months ago but to look at Sherlock's dazzling smile now and it all came just rushing back in a sucker punch to the stomach. "Don't call it that. It wasn't suicide; he wasn't suicidal, because if he was suicidal I could've helped him. I could've talked him off that roof, and instead I was talking nonsense into my phone like an idiot-"

"Okay, John, okay, let's just-"

"Why am I the only one who- why don't you _care?_ " He stared back at Greg, aware on some level that he was panting, now, teeth gritted past the pain in his chest, but he was too strained to stop it. "I know I'm not the only one who... I mean, _Christ._ You just about lost your job for him. Then he just shows back up again like it was all a big joke, and I'm the only one who seems to have a problem with it."

There it was, he thought. Right there: finally neatly excised and carved out with surgical precision, no longer leaking poison into his chest but instead bleeding freely in his hands, right there for anyone to see.

Mrs. Hudson had been over the moon, and welcomed Sherlock back home without a second thought. Molly, as it turned out, had never thought he was dead to begin with. Greg had been giving him cases again before the first week was out.

And that left John.

The only one who seemed to remember that the reason they were celebrating Sherlock's return at all, was because he'd willfully made them think he was dead.

Yeah. He'd been mad. He was _still_ mad. He was mad as hell at Sherlock, and the only thing that made it worse was the fact that no one else seemed to care.

Beside him, Greg lit another cigarette.

So they had More to Talk About, then.

John didn't want to _talk about this,_ at all.

He just wanted to be mad as hell at Sherlock without being so bloody scared for him in the same breath.

"I know what he did was- bad. I know what it was to you. Honestly, if you told him to piss off and that you never wanted to see him again, I think I'd understand."

But that wasn't what he _wanted._

It hit him for the first time, then, finally and head-on, like a blow to the face. God, no matter what he wrote in that stupid blog, the very last thing that he wanted was to never see Sherlock again.

He wanted-

He didn't know what he wanted.

"And I know the way Sherlock's been acting probably really hasn't helped matters," Greg went on, and the look on his face was odd, now. Not that grimly tolerant look that he'd had for so much of this week, but that sad stare, again, the one that made him feel as if he was missing something terrible and he didn't want to know what. "And- ah, hell. Sherlock'll probably kill me for telling you this."

"Telling me _what?"_

Greg didn't say anything at first, still avoiding his gaze; after only a moment he nudged John's shoulder, getting him to fall into step with him as he started back down the pavement. "Next contact's this way, come on," he said, and John did, because he'd learned a long time ago that the only solution to feeling this wretched was to feel _useful_ instead.

If there was even a chance Sherlock was hiding himself somewhere in London, then John was going to keep looking until they'd found him.

It was then, with them headed off back down into such a seedy part of town that John was glad he'd taken his gun, that Greg went on.

"Sherlock's not been doing so hot. Since coming back, I mean."

"What does that even- what. Drugs?" John squinted about the dilapidated street, crummy apartment buildings that Greg led them by, boarded up windows that he knew very well hid junkies currently off their tits and all the worse. Fuck. Was _that_ really why they were here? Were they looking for Sherlock in crackhouses because that was where he'd already been? "Has he been-"

"No, no, nothing like that. I asked. He said no."

"He lies."

"Yeah, well, sometimes he does. But he wasn't lying about this." Greg sighed heavily. "Remember, I actually knew him, back when he was on drugs. This isn't that. I had him do a drug test, anyway. He's clean."

John grimaced to himself, shoulders hunched as he pulled a little closer to Greg. Well, that was something, at least. He'd already thought Sherlock was clean, but... it was a relief, to get the confirmation that Sherlock hadn't been spending his free time in a horrible place like this.

"He turns up at my place, sometimes. Not high, unless you count nicotine, but he counts his patches now, at least. Said something about getting nicotine poisoning once; learned his lesson. Never been sicker in his life." Greg shook his head while John was left even more alarmed, his eyes widening and his breath quickening. _Nicotine poisoning?_ When had _that_ happened? Certainly not before he'd left; Sherlock had still slapped on nicotine patches like they were candy, back then- and why hadn't Sherlock told him? God knew he'd never been shy about taking advantage of having a doctor for a flatmate before!

"Can't sleep, he says, and he won't talk about it. I don't think he sleeps when he's at my place, either, if I'm being totally honest. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and just find him on my sofa with a cup of tea. Once he dusted the entire house, and when I asked him why all he told me was- _bored~."_

John grinned at that, Greg's attempt at Sherlock's high-strung drawl. Of course he'd been _bored;_ when wasn't he, except when given the present of a triple homicide or a locked room murder? He grinned, for the first time in weeks he grinned and actually felt it, a warm fondness tugging at his heart- only for the mental image to really sink in, and then, for the grin to very quickly fade away.

The mental image of Sherlock- _Sherlock bloody Holmes-_ doing housework.

In the middle of the night.

In a house that wasn't even his.

Of Sherlock doing housework in the middle of the night in a house that wasn't his because- Christ, _why?_ John had certainly never told him to leave Baker Street before. Not even before the fall, when he'd taken to raucous violin concerts at midnight to 'help him think', and... and Sherlock hadn't done that since he'd gotten back, had he? Not even once. He was quiet and withdrawn and reclusive, none of which was remotely new, but it was as if the chaotic waves of living with Sherlock had been muted, somehow. The tantrums less often, the midnight strops apparently moved somewhere else, the shooting at the walls gone entirely. He knew things hadn't been the best between them lately, but... god. He''d had _no idea._ He'd...

"Did he say why?" He swallowed hard, then steeled himself, squaring his shoulders back with military precision. There was someone watching them unhappily, a dealer, it looked like to John, lingering in the shadows of an alley, and John met his eyes and glared until he scampered off. He wouldn't let them sniff around Sherlock, and he wouldn't let them chase him and Greg off, either. Not tonight. Not anymore. "Did Sherlock- did he-"

Greg chuckled quietly, nudging John to turn left at the upcoming corner. "No, not really. God knows why he does anything. The most I've gotten out of him is that he doesn't want to do anything- impulsive."

Impulsive.

John swallowed again.

Just what the hell did that mean?

 _Impulsive._ Sherlock's very nature was impulsive. For god's sake, the man had knowingly walked off with a serial killer the day they'd met. Sherlock wouldn't know self-control if it slapped him in the face.

But the way Greg had said the word didn't make him see Sherlock waltzing after a serial killer or off a rooftop to prove he was clever.

It made him remember the new silences Sherlock had taken to holding. The ways he didn't smoke or play violin or pace, and sometimes left crime scenes in a billow of the Belstaff without an explanation, his face pale and his eyes harder than they ever would've been before the fall.

It made him see the closed off silence that slammed down over Sherlock's face, just before he'd walked out, the night that everything had gone wrong.

Greg stopped him with a cautioning hand on his arm, when they started to make around another corner. He shook his head, telling him they had to wait until the area cleared out, that they couldn't go storming in until there were less eyes and ears there to watch, but _just waiting_ was about the last thing that John had the patience for, right now. "No."

"John-"

" _No,"_ he snapped again, and pulled out of reach, just as Greg tried to pull him back again. "Why are you telling me all this? What does any of this have to do with Sherlock being missing, right now? You clearly have something in mind, you've been staring at me all bloody week like you want to say something, so just _out with it,_ already."

Greg's jaw tightened again. He stared warily at John, and John stared right back, meeting the guarded look in his eyes in a wordless challenge to either put up or shut up. He wouldn't play mind games anymore. Whatever was going on here, if Mycroft wouldn't say, and Sherlock apparently could not- that left just him.

John's nerves had been tempered to burnished steel, each hard hammer of his heart thumping against cold metal, and fucking hell, he was _done_ with being jerked around.

He waited, and finally, the light in his eyes darkened to disapproving, Greg told him.

"If you can't forgive Sherlock for what he did to you, fine. Given that I hadn't spoken to Mycroft in months until now, I'm certainly not in a position to judge you there. I know that what he did was absolutely _awful_ , that he put you through hell and whatever reason he had for it, it probably isn't a good one. I really haven't been able to think of any excuse that could justify what he put you through. So if you can't get past it, I get it- I really do." He broke off for a breath and stared back at John, his eyes gone hard and cold in a way that made it feel like Greg was a wall, and Sherlock was guarded behind it.

John steeled himself further, his jaw clenched, and waited for the other shoe to drop.

"But if that's the case, then you need to tell Sherlock that now, and then stop jerking him around. Stop ignoring him, stop making him apologise when you're not wanting to hear it, stop whatever it is you're doing that makes him feel like he has to come haunt my sofa so he doesn't, I don't know, bloody hurt himself when you're right upstairs and supposed to be his best friend. Because stringing him out like this isn't fair, John. And he's human, no matter what he has to say about that, and it's hurting him. Whatever he did out there, these two years? It hurt him, too. A lot. And I know, god, I _know_ he hurt you too, but what you're doing to him now isn't fixing that, it's just hurting the both of you both even more, and it has to stop."

Then, Greg snapped his mouth shut, and pivoted back to face the waiting crackhouse without another word.

It made the second time in as many weeks that John had been told off, for not being enough. For being wrong. For the entire gnarly spiderweb of thorns and contradictions that comprised all of Sherlock's existence.

The second time he'd heard _I know you're hurt, but Sherlock is, too._

Which was really one revelation too much to face, when right at this second Sherlock could very well be hurt or dead. And with each day that ticked by London slid back a little further into the grey expanse that it had degraded to in one fall from a hospital roof in 2012, because the chances of Sherlock being recovered back safe and sound fell with every additional day that he was gone.

And the one thing John knew was that he had not made the catastrophically stupid decision of being Sherlock Holmes' best friend for the intolerable agony of being left behind, helpless, bored, and _waiting_ for something to happen.

"John? John, wait-"

John shrugged the sleeves of his jacket off, tossing it over his shoulder to reveal the highly illegal firearm there for the whole street to see. He met the waiting drug dealer's stare with one of his own, one that he'd learned in the military and honed in the three years he'd spent living with a stubborn beast of a man-child, and he made sure the gun was there in plain sight.

It took less than three seconds to send him scampering off.

"Well, come on, then!" he shouted back to Greg, and kept on ahead without looking back.

* * *

They didn't find Sherlock.

Again.

* * *

John marked it down as two weeks missing, and that night, found himself standing in Sherlock's empty bedroom. His heart heavy, and a glass of whiskey in hand.

It was dusty.

That was his first impression.

It was dusty.

It was dusty, and neat, and- unlived in. Like a museum. The boxes had been unpacked, periodic table and judo certificate framed back on the walls, but he didn't look around the room and see the chaos that was the habitation of Sherlock Holmes.

If he listened to Greg, then this room hadn't been used as much as it should have been, since he'd came back.

If he listened to himself, and the niggling worry taking root, festering, and growing at the back of his head, then John feared it had barely been used at all.

He didn't get it.

The light gleamed off the glass frame of the periodic table when John flicked it on, illuminating the dust in the air, the unused neatness of the bed, the hollow emptiness of it all. He sat heavily on the side of the mattress, tracing a thumb over the duvet that Mrs. Hudson had kept stored away in a closet for two years, because she hadn't been able to bear giving it away.

It didn't make _sense._

Sherlock had left. _Sherlock_ had made the decision to _leave_ them behind _,_ and he had left, and spent two years doing god only knew what, but if it had been enough to keep the consultant's insatiable mind occupied, he knew it could've hardly been anything dull. Binging on cocaine, most likely- he'd _seen_ the goddamn track marks, whether Sherlock was tight-lipped about it or not. Being enthralled. Interested. _Entertained._ Because that had always been how it was; Moriarty was _enthralling,_ for the genius who risked his life to prove he was clever, just dangerous and brilliant enough to keep Sherlock on the edge that he so loved to live on even as the city burned around him.

Sherlock had done all of that, and then, when it had gotten _boring,_ waltzed back straight into John's life with a flippant smile to proclaim _Surprise!,_ and asking after John's company on a case. He'd told John to his face that his fight to clear his name had been a waste of time.

He'd done _all that-_

And now, Greg and Mycroft were telling him that _Sherlock_ was hurt. That _Sherlock_ , with his indifferent smiles and flippant dodging of the question whenever those two years were brought up, had to go somewhere else at night just so he wouldn't do anything _impulsive._

Now, he was missing.

And John still didn't have the slightest idea what was going on. He _still_ wasn't entirely convinced this wasn't another plan of Mycroft's altogether, for that matter. He didn't know where Sherlock was, and apparently hadn't had the slightest idea what was going on even before he'd turned up missing.

And right now, it was all driving him fucking mad, because all he had the power to do was follow Greg on useless treks throughout the city, and turn helplessly through old case files with Donovan, and clean his gun at night and be ready to fire it in the morning, but all that mattered was finding Sherlock safe and sound and in that, he was useless.

He hated being useless.

"Where are you, Sherlock?" he croaked. "Where did you go?"

_Two years ago-_

_Where did you go?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update- I think- John should be learning the truth about why Sherlock jumped, and a bit about Serbia, with the return of protective!Mycroft. 
> 
> Feedback is always welcome and appreciated! <3


	5. The Truth Always Comes Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments/kudos!!! 
> 
> I meant to get this one up yesterday, but food poisoning struck :/ Still don't feel too stellar, but I was at last able to proofread and spruce it up a little. Enjoy!

* * *

**| F O R W A R D |**

**June 28 2014**

* * *

_The day that I met Sherlock Holmes, I:_

_-somehow ended up on the scene of a homicide_

_-was left to walk (read: limp) home alone, from the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night (with a known serial killer active in the area, by the way!)_

_-was kidnapped by a madman_

_-sprinted into traffic several dozen times_

_-ran from the police_

_-watched my new flatmate walk off with a serial killer to prove he was clever_

_-watched my new flatmate nearly kill himself to prove he was clever_

_For some reason, at the end of the day, I decided to move in, and stick around for more._

_In hindsight, now- even knowing how it all turned out. Even if I accept that I wouldn't be able to change a thing._

_If given the choice, I'd move in again._

* * *

"I think you forgot the part where you killed a man, John," Sherlock murmured. "Not a very nice man. But you did."

He frowned for several moments more, tracing the bold script with his eyes. Listening to the way the words sounded in his head and wrapping them up all around him, insulated underneath them like a warm blanket.

"And I did **not** nearly kill myself. _I had the right pill."_

Sherlock chewed on the inside of his cheek in the silence, still frowning downwards. Weighing the sore ache in his dry throat against the screeching misery in his hands, he knew it would cost him to go after a drink of water.

Scowling, Sherlock curled a little tighter, and kept reading.

* * *

_This was my fourth date that Sherlock had ruined. No surprise, she didn't call me back when I ended up bailing before the previews ended. And all for a crime that he'd solved before I even made it to the scene! He said it was barely a three on his interest scale, which begged the question why he was there at all. "Sherlock Holmes doesn't leave the flat for anything less than a seven."_

_All of my dates from 2010-2012 can attest that Sherlock was for real, because if he wasn't, it was seriously a dick move for him to interrupt them all to call me out to a crime scene in the middle of nowhere just to have an audience for a crime that he'd faked to begin with._

_This actually isn't that winning of an argument, maybe. Sherlock was full of dick moves. Which, once again, all of my dates from 2010-2012 can attest to. Example: I didn't find this out until three weeks later, from a colleague at the surgery, but this fourth date of mine? She was seeing someone else at the time, and was continuing to cheat on the new doctor she was dating now. After breaking it off with me, because Sherlock called me to a scene he'd normally not be caught dead at, demanding it was an emergency, only for everything to have magically been all resolved before I ever got there._

_I leave you to your deductions._

* * *

Good, John. _Clever,_ John.

Sherlock scowled again.

_Ellen._

He'd never been a fan, of John's many girlfriends. All so dull. So slow. Such _distractions,_ involving John with silly trivialities like flowers and sex when John _should be_ at home, at 221B, with him. At crime scenes, chasing down the streets of London. Because that was where Sherlock required him, and that was what John liked best. No date had ever compared to how brilliantly flushed and excited he was after a good chase; Sherlock knew it. He had compiled the data himself. Crime scenes made John happier than a date ever had.

But he had _really_ never liked Ellen.

* * *

_...and it remains, possibly, the most surreal moment of my life to date._

_I was wearing an explosive vest, jesus fuck. There was a psychopath in my ear promising me if I so much as said a single word without permission, he would press the button and they'd be cleaning me off the walls. My insane flatmate was standing across from me with government secrets on a flashdrive that he'd been planning on bargaining with said psychopath with, god only knows why, pointing a gun at me and knowing him, ready and wiling to use it._

_All of this madness was going on, and, really, all I wanted to do was knock Moriarty's teeth down his throat, because he put that look on Sherlock's face._

_(It didn't last, by the way. Within five minutes I was wanting to hit Sherlock, instead. He aimed a loaded gun at a bomb. He aimed a loaded gun, at a bomb. And he scratched his head with it. Loaded. Jesus Christ. No.)_

* * *

The first case of Jim Moriarty.

Something uncomfortable knotted in Sherlock's stomach.

John's retelling was... kind. Kinder, likely, than was fair. It didn't mention a lot of things- things that John had termed a Bit Not Good at the time, things that Sherlock didn't even remember now, because he'd deleted it all offhand. He hadn't cared, because he'd been so taken up by the thrill of the case.

There really was nothing comparable, to fencing off with someone as absolutely brilliant as Moriarty. It had been a hit of the purest cocaine, the rest of his cases painted in shades of grey and beige and suddenly London had exploded in an artist's colour- a canvas all laid out just for him.

 _God,_ it had been exhilarating.

It had still been exhilarating, all the way through to the end, with a bullet in Moriarty's brain.

It had just stopped being a game, when John had looked at him in the wavering light of the pool, with an explosives vest on and a sniper's light dancing over his head.

_Did I ever tell him that?_

_Did I ever tell him I was sorry he got involved?_

_That it was a game until it wasn't, and that instant was the crucible, and I would kill Moriarty for daring to have touched you? I was going to kill him from the instant he touched what was mine, I was going to tear him into tiny little pieces and shred his existence and disseminate the ashes from the second I saw what he had done, it wasn't a game, John, it was never a game, did I ever tell you I'm sorry_

* * *

_...the case of the Missing Bumblebee._

_If you're checking back the pages now, to see if you missed anything, you're correct- this is the shortest case write-up of the book. I think it rated around a two, on Sherlock's scale of interest. I'd have been able to solve it on my own (though wouldn't have minded having Sherlock available to check my work). I never could get Sherlock to admit why he'd taken the case, because it surely wasn't for the puzzle of it. Mrs. Hudson ended up having to key me in._

_Sherlock took the case, because Sherlock Holmes loved bees._

* * *

"John," Sherlock keened, horrified. His face flamed, warmth hungry and spreading from his neck up all the way to the very tips of his ears. "Oh, joyous hells. Now _everybody_ knows!"

* * *

_...it was reported as a case of myocardial infarction, according to the police and pathologist. Accidental death by anyone else who'd have looked at the file. Sherlock was convinced it was a case of poisoning, and that he was the only one with the know how to prove it. I hate to admit it, but even I was useless here- like any sane medical student, organic chemistry was the bane of my existence, and that was back when I was still in university. I burned my mechanisms notebook in a class-wide bonfire when we finished pharmacology._

_He lived at Bart's lab for nine days. Those of us who knew Sherlock know that this isn't an exaggeration. He'd work for twenty four hours straight, sometimes; I'd come back in the morning and he'd still be working from the night before. I could barely follow his notes, and Sherlock gave up trying to use me as a sounding board after the first day. It was over my head, and he was utterly brilliant._

_He figured it out, of course. He isolated and identified the poison, and he probably could've done the rest of the work and proved it, too. But he was about ready to collapse and if I hadn't taken him home, he would've wound up admitted. He probably should have been. He slept for over a day at home and I had to give him an IV, and was about ready to call for reinforcements when he came wandering into the kitchen at hour 26, and asked for pancakes._

_For those with inquiring minds, the records for this one are all in the court case. It's public record, and involves Sherlock grandstanding into a shouting match as an expert witness; a real treat, and highly recommended. I think the only reason he didn't get held in contempt (again) is because the magistrate couldn't follow what he was saying. (Sherlock is a terrible expert witness. Sherlock is a terrible witness. Never ask him to testify.)_

_But this case also taught me something new, about Sherlock._

_Sherlock always advertised as loudly as he could that he worked cases because he was bored, and they were interesting. And it was true. May god himself have mercy on the angels that are keeping his company now, because being dead sounds terribly boring, and the most terrifying thing I've ever seen is Sherlock, bored. I've been shot at, I've seen IEDs go off ten feet away from me, I've actually been shot, and that is all still nothing compared to Sherlock Holmes, bored._

_That he only takes cases because he's bored is one of the biggest lies he ever told me._

_Sherlock was in his element, on this case. You know how people say that pregnant mothers are glowing, are radiant? I'm sure he'd kill me, if he knew the analogy involved expectant mothers, but it fits. I had never seen him so alive. He was brilliant every hour, even without food or sleep; the puzzle of figuring out the poison kept him running and he was glorious the entire time. Nine days straight, and he was high on the sheer thrill of it all the entire time. It was one of the most stunning things I've ever seen._

_The thing is, he could've had more of that, if he'd wanted. Sherlock wasn't just a chemist, he was a natural with a goldmine of potential, locked away in the rat's nest of a brain. People who are that good have options. Ornery prick or not, he would've had his choice of six figure jobs, state of the art labs, and as many puzzles as he could ever want. He'd have had an adoring audience for his genius with every intern, conference, and publication that he bothered to write up._

_Instead, he heated up eyeballs in the microwave, and was stuck using Bart's IR spectrometer, which was made sometime last century and dear god if you're reading this and have money, please consider donating a new one, because they really need it._

_A very wise man once said to me, "Sherlock has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, and yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?"_

_I told him then that I didn't know. Now, I think that I do._

_Sherlock, despite his every effort to dress it up as merely being a bored, self-centered arse, liked helping people. He did hate working with most people, absolutely, and he never would hesitate to make someone cry to prove a case- or even just prove a point. He'd show off because he loved it, no other reason, and he'd wait around wasting time just so he could have an audience to stun. But underneath it all, he wanted to be able to work tangible good on the world, in ways he never could have done shut up in a lab. He liked being able to help people, even if those same people hated him._

_Maybe that was a bit as to why. He knew he couldn't make people like him, so he made them need him, instead._

* * *

Sherlock sniffed haughtily, chin raised, and his arm curled back around himself into his tightest cocoon.

Maudlin John. Melodramatic John. Silly, ridiculous, dependable, wonderful John.

John hadn't always hated him.

He kept reading.

* * *

_...and that was the end of the Hound of Baskerville._

_I've left it as a open invitation, for anyone to describe to me how Sherlock could have possibly faked this case. So far, not one person has tried. I continue to welcome any volunteers._

_The hound folklore started when Sherlock was still in primary school, all the way across the country; was he meant to be pulling strings when he was eight? Was he somehow so unearthly brilliant he was setting this up for decades, manipulating Henry Knight to come ask for our help, running this scheme and a dozen others to pull the wool over London's eyes- and at the same time such a fraud he wasn't smart enough to be a simple PI?_

_Sherlock was brilliant. He was more brilliant than me, he was more brilliant than anyone I've ever met, he was more brilliant than you. I have never had anyone yet be able to prove that wrong._

_I didn't like this case, at the time. We had an argument, and Sherlock drugged me for an experiment, and I'm still not sure if he ever understood that wasn't something that was okay to do. Sherlock was odd, like that. There were a lot of things, social conventions, that he did understand- he just decided they weren't worth his time, and ignored them. But there were just as many others that he genuinely didn't understand, and didn't know he'd said or done something hurtful until he stopped talking long enough to realise he'd made someone cry._

_Sherlock wasn't the only one to make mistakes, here, though._

_We argued, as I said. Sherlock was drugged at the time, though neither of us knew it. He was having a panic reaction, and I didn't recognise it- me. A bloody doctor! Sherlock was always so determined to come across as a machine, as a perfect inhuman algorithm and nothing more, that I suppose it worked a little, even on me. I couldn't process him as upset or frightened, that maybe for a moment he just needed someone to listen instead of me sitting there, telling him what he was wrong._

_Neither of us ever properly apologised, for what went wrong during this case._

_But for all the bad, there's still one good, here._

_Sherlock called me his friend._

_It's ridiculous, isn't it? He'd saved my life a dozen times before this. He'd willfully risked his life to save mine, and never once did he have to. For months I'd been writing a blog that was pretty much Sherlock Holmes: Look at Him Go! I'd considered him a friend for a long time already._

_But I think Dartmoor was the first time Sherlock realised it.._

_Which sounds so maudlin that he would likely set all of my jumpers on fire for an "experiment" if he knew I'd put that down in black and white and let other people read it, but here we are._

* * *

...

Sherlock did not want to set all of John's jumpers on fire.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply in through his nose once. Twice. A third time.

His next breath caught in his throat, and he pressed his face to his knees instead, and let the world around him be shut out. There was an ache in his chest, something peculiar and not at all physical, and it made his throat burn in a way that was utterly inexcusable and entirely unstoppable.

He missed John.

He missed John, and it didn't matter that John was just the other side of London, because he missed _this_ John.

And Sherlock didn't have this John anymore, because he'd destroyed it.

* * *

Sherlock read until the morning slid by into evening. He read until the hours slid by unheeded, Wiggins flickering in and out of the hazed edges of his mind; must have replaced the water, because it got refilled, must have eaten the crackers again, because they vanished, and it certainly hadn't been into Sherlock's mouth. He read until his shoulders were miserable again with the strain of hunching over and his trackpad had been smeared with his own blood.

He read, until his email pinged in the corner, and the spell was broken.

_Subject line: Draft Post Made on Your Blog (The Science of Deduction)_

As out of it was he was, it took a few extraordinarily shameful moments for understanding to click.

When it did hit him, he buried his face back into his knees, and reconsidered melting back into the ground.

"Oh, for _god's sake."_

* * *

Sherlock,

Change your password.

All of them. Now.

And if I find that you are using the same password for everything again, then hell hath no fury like a brother's scorn.

Moving on-

Your message was received. I think it prudent to inform you that the men responsible for your current situation have since been apprehended, and thoroughly faced the consequences for their actions.

Apologies: I would offer you a slice of the pie, but I believe there is not enough left over to share.

I should remind you medical attention is available for you, as ever, should you require it and seek it out. In this case, I will not be present unless you request it, and I have anonymized your NHS number so as not to alert any other interested parties, if it is used. But, since I doubt you will believe me on this matter, all I can ask is that you be responsible with your health, and hope that you listen.

I am not sure why you are in hiding. But, I have drawn a few deductions of my own. I have some understanding of what occurred between you and John, prior to all of this unpleasantness, and if my deductions are correct, I understand why you have chosen to remain out of sight. As you know, I have been fully in support of you breaking ties with John for some time, now, so I hope these words will have some weight: I strongly advise attempting a conversation with him at least once more. You might be surprised, at the difference several weeks can make.

Do know that I will eventually have to inform Scotland Yard, if you persist in remaining out of sight. DI Lestrade is devoting quite a number of resources to finding you, and I can not abide with him wasting his department's time for much longer.

You will need to make your decision before the week is out.

If you remain insistent on cutting all ties, then I can not stop you. If nothing else, the past two years have proven that you are more than capable of taking care of yourself, and my efforts to meddle have never gone appreciated. Some would say it was my influence that caused all of this in the first place. Therefore, I am trusting you to take care of yourself, Sherlock. If you decide that the best thing for you is to go underground and not surface again, then I won't stop you. I am trusting you to do what you think is best, however misplaced many would argue that trust to be, and trusting that you know better than me what will bring you the most happiness.

However, I do hope that you know that such a loss would break my heart.

Remember, Sherlock:

Caring is not an advantage. But neither is it voluntary.

* * *

"Shut up, you interfering prat," Sherlock muttered, and snapped his laptop shut.

* * *

_What are you going to do, Sherlock?_

_The clock's ticking._

_Tick, tock, tick, tock..._

_What are you going to do?_

* * *

He stayed in his ball, his mind willfully shut down, until the footsteps came.

"Wiggins," he coughed, and his voice now sounded just as wrecked as the rest of him. Cigarette. He needed a cigarette. "Do you have a-"

"We've got a problem, Shezza."

* * *

**| R E W I N D |**

**June 05 2014**

* * *

**Blog of Dr. John H Watson**

Re: Recent Comments- June 05 2014

I've said this before. Evidently, that didn't register, with some of you. So, I'll say publicly again again.

Stop leaving comments asking about my situation with Sherlock. I don't know how to make this any clearer: it's not your business. I'm not going to answer them. If they continue after this post, I'm going to start blocking you.

To be quite honest, if you got the answers you're asking after, most of you probably wouldn't like what I had to say.

* * *

John got home from another frustrating, distracted, utterly exhausting day at the surgery, to find Mycroft Holmes set up in his sitting room.

Just. Invited himself in, evidently. Arranged at Sherlock's desk as if it was his own, calmly typing away on the laptop as if it was just the same, a cup of tea next to him and everything. Perhaps he'd finally managed to remember how to be polite to Mrs. Hudson.

Well. All right, then.

John had not seen Mycroft since that day at Scotland Yard. He had not so much as spoken about him since that conversation with Greg, where he'd learned that perhaps the one thing more screwed up about this than what Sherlock had done to him was what Mycroft had done to Greg.

And now- just here he was.

Calmly typing away in his sitting room and drinking a cup of tea.

John squeezed at the bridge of his nose, and counted to ten.

Mycroft continued typing.

"...Afternoon?" John offered. "Hi, John, can I come in? Oh, yes, make yourself at home, Mycroft, would you like some tea? No, thank you, I'll get it myself..."

There was another particularly loud flurry of clicks. Mycroft's pale, expressionless eyes slid from the screen to John. He was clearly not, in any way, amused.

It took several seconds for a pause in the typing to come, his face still perfectly calm. "Good afternoon," he said back.

Then, mouth twitching in a way of barely restrained annoyance, his gaze flitted back to the laptop, and the conversation went back to a one-sided monologue going entirely ignored.

Oh, this was just fantastic.

At this point, John didn't even want to hazard a guess at which one of them was ruder, Sherlock or his brother.

"So, I suppose I'm meant to make a deduction, then?" John settled down on the sofa, seeing as Mycroft had apparently claimed the desk. Tea would just have to wait. "Checking Sherlock's computer for evidence? As if you don't already have a, a, I don't know- bloody parental controls on it like he's a two year old. So he's still missing, then?" He folded his arms, making a dramatic show of it all- he had learned from the best after all. Now was really starting to understand why unannounced visits from Mycroft sent Sherlock into the strop to end all strops. "Or did he just tip you off himself from wherever you've stashed him this time, get so bored that if you don't bring him his laptop, he'll shoot up again?"

Mycroft's placid expression didn't waver. He did not even look up from the computer.

John's temper started rising.

"Are you here to pack up your things, then?"

_"What?"_

"Are you here," Mycroft repeated, "to pack up your things?" He finished another keystroke with a flourish, then sat back, frowning quizzically on at the screen as if this conversation was nothing at all but a forgotten afterthought. "Moved out by the end of the month, you said. In your little _blog_. Do let me know if you need assistance in the matter, Dr. Watson. It is rather frowned upon, to use MI6 agents for personal favours, but for you?" He paused, mouth curling just by a degree. "I think I'll make an exception."

John had almost forgotten about that blog post entirely.

That stupid, spur of the moment, stupid, _stupid_ post. That now even if he knew nothing else at all, he knew he regretted that _stupid post_.

His temper rose another notch.

Would have been intimidating, if John gave a damn about being intimidated by a three-piece suit and an umbrella.

"Yeah, change of plans, about that." He made a show of spreading out, chin propped up on one fist and legs stretched over the carpet. If Mycroft ended up tripping over them, well, _good._ "I'm sticking around. For now, at least. Not that it's any of your business."

Fine. _Fine!_ He'd given in. Of course he was going to bloody stay. Of course he wasn't moving out while Sherlock was missing. He couldn't do that to him. No. Of course not. Just what he'd been afraid of, when this whole mes had started, and now- _fine!_

He wasn't going to leave after that conversation he'd finally had with Greg. The one thing he could not, in good conscience, do, was just pack up and leave now. Not when Greg talked about his friend _having trouble_ and _being impulsive,_ and Sherlock had barely spoken to him for weeks even before this, and John had yelled at him that night and ignored him for even longer and god this was all his fucking fault.

Lost to hurricane Sherlock. _Yet again._

Mycroft's eyes flickered onto him for a heartbeat, utterly expressionless. There wasn't even a pause in the quiet sounds of typing.

Then, back to the laptop.

"How disappointing," he murmured.

Oh, _hell._

"For what it's worth?" John snapped. None of this was a good idea, none of this was remotely in the same universe as a _good idea,_ but his patience was well and truly gone, for Mycroft Holmes. He shouldn't have punched Sherlock, the night he'd come back, he should've punched _him._ "You could've just asked me. For _whatever it is_ you're looking for over there, on his laptop. I know you two like to act as if we're all just little pawns in the human game of chess, but-"

"If you absolutely, simply _must_ know- no, Dr. Watson. Nothing I am looking for would have been assisted by asking you first." He clicked off whatever screen he was on with an angry little twitch at the mouth again, bristling all over like an angry cat. He still would not so much as look at John. "Sherlock's disappearance can be credited to a team of Russian agents who are wishing to influence our next statement of foreign policy, currently scheduled for June 19. Given that my position and relation to Sherlock are kept rather under the warps in order to prevent precisely this sort of scenario- believe it or not, his safety is of paramount importance to me- I am searching for any traces of foreign malware on his electronics that might have tipped our adversaries off. Unless you received a degree in advanced computer forensics on your way up the stairs, you would be of precisely no help."

John blinked.

And Mycroft-

Well, Mycroft, of course, wrapped up his little impromptu speech, cleared his throat, his face smoothing back out degree by degree-

And then just continued typing.

John stared in disbelief.

 _God,_ that man was infuriating.

As usual, it took John a few moments to wrap his mind around it all. Because that was how the Holmes brothers just _did things;_ vomiting out mind-blowing revelations out of the blue like candy. Russians, government agents, of _course_ it was all Mycroft's fault, Sherlock still missing, Sherlock still in terrible danger. Was... was that really all this was? Was that _it?_

No criminal with a grudge. No one who'd want to. God, _hurt_ him. He hadn't been killed, or hurt by some psychopath, or tortured, or- it was _politics,_ for fuck's sake. If Mycroft was right. If Mycroft wasn't lying, then he was assuredly _alive,_ pissed off but fine, and- thank _god,_ but-

"Wait. Wait," he said, and Mycroft, of course, did not. "Are you telling me you know who took Sherlock? This- this _whole time,_ you've known?"

Mycroft simply continued typing.

Jesus _Christ,_ the universe really wasn't wanting for him to be friends with Mycroft today, was it?

"What the _hell_ is your problem?"

Mycroft's eyes gleamed dangerously again. Barely just a flicker of provoked anger in the faint light of 221B. "I remind you again to choose your next words very carefully, Dr. Watson."

"Oh, _fuck off._ What are you going to do, banish me to Siberia?" He laughed, and it came out bitter and mad. He was trembling now, stricken in disbelief at the insanity of it all. Look at that; one night with Sherlock had cured his hand tremor for good, but one infuriating little chat with Mycroft and it came charging back. "Were you just never going to mention this?! I've been looking over Sherlock's old cases with Scotland Yard for days for someone with a grudge! Lestrade's just been wasting his time! We could've been- could've-"

"Could've _what,_ precisely?" Mycroft drawled. He settled back deeper into his chair, legs crossing and arms folding to create a picture of sheer smugness, dripping condescension with every word. "Taken on a team of elite foreign agents trained to run circles around the best of us, who were capable of out-maneuvering _Sherlock,_ who is trained better than any of you... with what, exactly. A few police sergeants? They eat people like you and Lestrade for breakfast." He pushed Sherlock's laptop shut with a loud click, glowering on down at it as if it was the one he was annoyed with, not John, his thumb already tapping down with rhythmic precision. "Your righteous indignation and moral outrage is also somewhat misplaced. I informed Inspector Lestrade of this weeks ago, when it became apparent he was not going to leave this investigation to me. You see, unlike my brother, I actually do make a habit of cooperating with law enforcement, and not just when it suits me."

"Lestrade- _knows?"_ But they'd been looking over old case files just yesterday. John had been going down to the Yard for weeks, now, helping out in any way that he could, and all they'd been able to do was run straight into dead ends ever since Sherlock had gone missing. Lestrade had been looking _with_ him this entire time, and never said nothing at all about any of this. Nothing to do with- with foreign military agents, or Russia, or...

"Yes," Mycroft murmured. His cold voice had slipped back to that sly, unsettling purr of his. If Sherlock was a like a great panther cat lounging in the sun, John thought, then Mycroft was a fat and lazy one, purring on a cartoon villain's lap in a movie as he monologued. "Evidently, Inspector Lestrade does not value my assessment as trustworthy."

His thumb continued its hard tapping, over and over, thudding against the thin laptop. As ever, he still looked so unaffected he might as well have just asked John for a cup of tea.

And that made sense, then.

From what bare minimum scraps, Greg had told him about his past with Mycroft-

It was no wonder Greg wouldn't take his word for it. _John_ wasn't sure if he could take his word for it, right here, right now.

Mycroft took John's lack of a rebuttal as a win, evidently, his face settling back down into its customary resting sneer instead of that faint echo of distress, still rhythmically tapping. He was clearly not happy or comfortable here, no matter how hard he was trying to hang onto it. John wasn't happy for him to be here. Mrs. Hudson, in fact, probably wasn't all that thrilled that he'd just invited himself in. Sherlock himself would be livid, and no matter how juvenile their little sibling rivalry was, right now, John found himself siding with Sherlock.

There was another long stretch of silence. Mycroft persisted in doing exactly nothing, but just tapping away on that laptop.

It made John's skin crawl.

"If that's all, then?" he said, finally. Because it did, in fact, seem to be _all._ "You know where the door is."

For several long moments again, Mycroft did nothing but sit there and tap.

There was a cold glint in his eyes that echoed back to that day at Scotland Yard. A cold, dark glint of steady, unequivocal anger.

And it could not have been clearer that John was the target for it.

"Is that what you said to my brother?"

"What?"

"You heard me, Dr. Watson. Is that what you aid to my brother?" Mycroft settled calmly back in his seat, fingers interlacing over his stomach. Unerringly, unfailingly polite, the facade complete over every inch of him save those dangerous eyes. Slitted narrow and deadly, a snake about to strike. "The night that he left. Is what what you told him to get him to leave?"

John tensed.

And how, exactly, did Mycroft know about that?

Hell. Probably deduced it from the part of his hair or the angle of the forgotten newspaper on the table or- god, just skip all of that; probably had the flat bugged again and John was going to need to ask Sherlock to check for cameras in Mrs. Hudson's air freshener again. And he wondered why Sherlock had trust issues...

"You know? Even if- _if-_ I work things out with Sherlock-" and the repulsed look on Mycroft's face there was as if he'd just swallowed an oyster whole, "that still doesn't make any of this _your business._ Whatever we fought about, you don't get to know."

"I see."

"No, you _don't!_ You and Sherlock never _see,_ you say you do, but you don't! You don't get to run his life interfere- you don't get to try and run me off just because- what. Because I'm the only one actually pointing out that what you two did was fucked up? Because I actually have the nerve to be mad at Sherlock, and didn't just wait docile and patient for him to come home?" John shoved to his feet to snatch the laptop free, hugging it to his chest as he strode past. Why? Hell if he knew. There certainly wasn't anything he could do with it that Mycroft hadn't, but it was the principle of the thing; the principle of _this isn't yours_ and _get out._

"And for the record? Nothing I said to him that night was untrue. You might not like it, but none of it was a lie."

"I'm sure that you believe so."

"Oh, _shut up,_ you arrogant-" He spun around from the kitchen, laptop placed securely back down with trembling hands; hands that needed to hit something. There was a glass nearby, the rim just scraped against his knuckles, and the deja vu was maddening enough that John instantly had to step away. Not again. Not tonight. A Holmes would not reduce him to this again, damn it, he was _better_ than this. "What is it, then, what is this _really_ about?"

"My motivations are nothing but my brother's safety."

John snorted under his breath. "Yeah, because you've certainly always showed such a high degree of brotherly _concern_ for him before. Not unless it was one of your 'danger nights'- and even that was probably just so he wouldn't embarrass you-" he mocked back, except it wasn't funny, because according to Greg Sherlock had been having those worse than ever before, and John just hadn't known, because nobody had told him his best friend needed help, because he hadn't _seen it._ He hadn't seen it, and it wasn't funny at all, and he wanted to do it all over and make it better but he couldn't because Mycroft was sitting there, all smug and self-assured, and wouldn't let him.

"What?" he cried, "Is that it? Is that was this is? He came back from playing James Bond in full relapse already; you're just worried he'll relapse again? Want to know if I'll be sticking around to help you deal with that again, then?!"

And at very long last, John got exactly what he'd wanted.

Mycroft went stricken.

It was a perverse pleasure, to see the reaction in his implacable face. The slight widening of his eyes, that unsettled twist at his mouth. Sherlock was expressive in every way Mycroft was not, but the signs were there, and John saw it, just as keenly as he'd seen it in Sherlock's face, so many weeks ago, standing there just like this. He'd finally gotten through. He'd finally been _heard._

Somehow, in some ways he still didn't fully understand, he'd finally _hurt._

"You-" Mycroft started, then stopped. His throat bobbed, and his mouth then tightened to one flat, pressed shut line of ice-cold fury. "You used that against him. _That_ is what you said. You... actually used that against him."

What, was Mycroft wanting him to apologise for not being blind, now? Yes. Yes, he'd dared to point out _yes, I can see the dammed track marks for myself._ And?

If Sherlock didn't want his drug use thrown back in his face, then _maybe_ he shouldn't have gone on a two year vacation and came back with fresh track marks staring John in the face.

The politician faded a shade paler than paper, when John did not answer. He sagged bonelessly back in his chair, fingers still interlaced tightly together, and for a moment was just simply numb.

The look on his face, then, was nothing short of open revulsion.

"It appears I overestimated you," he said, finally. His voice had gone very calm and very quiet, in the way that only very powerful, dangerous men like Mycroft could manage. "And that is an impressive feat, since my expectations for you have already been so low. Somehow, you still managed to sink even lower."

It felt like he was a boy, again. Five years old and being lectured to _I'm not mad. I'm disappointed._ John sucked in a breath, as deep as he could fight it and then again, inhaling hard past clenched teeth, and when he felt the twitch in his shoulder had to drive himself back another step. If that glass stayed in reach, and Mycroft kept acting _like that,_ then he was going to pick it up and throw it and that would make the second Holmes in a month he'd broken glass over.

God, but Mycroft needed to just _shut up._

"I have made up my mind," Mycroft said suddenly, and he drew to his feet with a snap. "This is now out of Sherlock's hands. You, Dr. Watson, will be moved out at the end of the week."

The world dropped out a little from under John's feet.

"Ex... _excuse me?"_

"If you do not leave willingly, then I will see to it that you are gone myself, and please let us not waste time with your pejoratives and announcing that I can not force you. We both know that it is more than within my power, and you have just worn out the very last fraction of my patience." He swept up his suit jacket with a terse turn and tug, thumbing up the buttons with an almost angry snap, and did not look at John again. "If you are willing to use Serbia against him, then there is nothing remotely positive left to be gained by allowing your continued influence on his life."

John had heard more than enough, by this point. Mycroft could pout and tut if he liked; he wasn't moving out, not on _his_ bloody say so. He wanted the chance to at least _try_ and make things right with Sherlock, but work things out or not, it was not going to happen on this interfering prat's schedule. "You think what you like," he said shortly, turning away without any further delay. He snatched the laptop back up, just to be contrary. His heart was pounding, chest tight with a livid, racing fury that made his hands shake and his head ache, and before he knew what he was doing he'd crossed the room back to gather up his things. He'd leave his own flat, if that was what it took. He had to get out of here.

"Dr. Watson-"

"Shut up. Just. Just _shut up."_

"If you persist-"

"I said _shut up,"_ he snarled. "If you like your nose where it is, then you'll stop talking now, Mycroft."

Finally, Mycroft kept his mouth shut.

John squeezed his eyes shut again, laptop still crushed to his chest, and forced himself to stay calm.

Not again. Couldn't go down this road again.

He was just- going to leave. Yes. He was going to walk out of the flat, and find the nearest bar, and that was where he was going to stay. He was going to sit there and drink until his nails stopped clawing at the insides of his fists, until he no longer needed to hit something just to make it all stop. He was going to sit there and drink, and when he didn't feel _like this_ anymore, he was going to come back here, and Mycroft was going to be gone, and that was that. Yes. That was what he had to do.

He inhaled sharply again. The laptop was gripped so tightly in his hands, the corner of it was starting to hurt.

John had just made it to the door, when Mycroft got in one last quiet, parting shot.

"Is _that_ what you said to my brother, then?" he asked, very quietly. "You just threatened to hit him until he shut up? ... _Again?"_

John's throat stung as if Mycroft had just shoved a knife straight down it.

"You know?" he rasped. He took another step towards the door, then somehow found himself swinging back around to face the man head on, his heart racing over the sharp ache deep in his chest. "Sorry to disappoint, but shove off for two years to go travel the world, and leave leave me behind because he was _bored?_ For fun? Because he didn't _care?_ And then- _then_ just turn back up again, expecting everyone you left behind to still be waiting? You and Sherlock set yourself up to be disappointed. Because that's not something I can just _forgive._ "

Laptop still clutched in his hands, jacket tossed over his shoulder in a haphazard mess, John then set off for the door, his only destination in mind anywhere that was _not here._ Anywhere that had nothing to do with Sherlock or Mycroft. Two years of Sherlock being dead had taught him a bar was a _fantastic_ answer to that question, and once upon a time John had cared about that, had cared about not drowning his sorrows in a bottle, because he knew where that ended up, but all those thoughts had died with the crack of Sherlock's head on the pavement.

"You'd best not still be here, when I get-..."

John stopped.

Because Mycroft, too, had frozen.

"...back..."

Mycroft previously tight-lipped and absolutely livid, his face the colour of eggshell and his shoulders stiff as a statute, had now gone bone white. He stood paralyzed in place,staring at John still, but for the very first time- not hostile.

He looked as if John had just struck him in the face, and rattled his brain straight off axis with it.

And as pissed off at him as John was, something about that look sent a chill down his spine.

"...What?" He licked his lips, trying to will back the sudden dryness in his mouth. Mycroft did not answer, and John squared his shoulders, facing him back head on. "What is it?"

"John," he said abruptly. The hard undercurrent of steel crumbled like melting metal, hostility eradicated by such a sudden sense of urgency it slammed into John's stomach as a wrecking ball. "Why did Sherlock fake his death?"

_...What?_

"Um. ...to take down Moriarty's web. That's... Mycroft, why are you asking me this, you already-"

"You asked Sherlock this?"

"I- _yes!_ Of course I did! The night he got back!"

"And that is what he said?"

" _Yes!"_ John retorted again. He was still confused, but his own annoyance was starting to creep back up, edging a hold in in the face of Mycroft's utter inscrutability. "He said Moriarty's network was huge, and it took him years to work his way through it. I don't get what-"

"That is an answer to where he has been, John. That is not an answer to why he jumped!"

"What are you- well, he could hardly have pulled it all off otherwise!" John sank backwards in utter frustration, blowing out an exhausted breath and rubbing the fatigue out of his eyes. What on earth was the point of all this? "He had to get the police off his trail somehow, it's probably a lot easier to go play secret agent if no one's looking for you. I don't know, Mycroft, what the hell goes on in that brain of his- _why?_ What does any of this matter now?!"

Mycroft, pale-faced and bug-eyed, for several moments did not give an answer at all.

Then, with the air of one who was very, very tired, buried his face into his hands, and let out a sigh symptomatic of a man needing a stiff, cold drink.

"Oh, brother mine," he sighed. "What have you _done?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always welcome and appreciated! <3


	6. Final Chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the comments/kudos!!! Finally, the moment we've all been waiting for! (well... one of them. I swear, Sherlock and John WILL end up face to face before this is all over- just not quite yet!)
> 
> We're in the final stretch, here, now. The last few chapters might take me a little bit- I know everything that I want to have happen, but I'm still working out exactly what order of events I want to work with, here. We'll get there eventually, though, I promise!
> 
> Onwards!

"No," John choked.

Mycroft said nothing.

"This is... no." Slowly, inch by inch, he smoothed a hand back over the weathered file. The flimsy sheets crinkled under his fingertips like tissue paper to crackle and protest, each damming line seared into his mind in a final, damming judgment that he could not escape. Hi sthroat felt swollen and hard, like he'd swallowed tea that was too hot, and he had to cough and sniff to gulp in another breath at all.

"This is not- it is not true. Mycroft. It's not."

Mycroft, again, said nothing at all.

Because Mycroft knew he wasn't arguing. He wasn't challenging the truth laid out there for him in simple black and white. He could hear the lack of genuine denial in John's voice just as surely as John felt it in his aching heart.

_Operation Lazarus_

_Snipers were confirmed to be in place..._

_...agents assigned for protection proved ineffective..._

_Contracts on the lives of Martha Hudson, Gregory Lestrade, John Watson..._

_...Sebastian Moran was assigned to John Watson._

Sebastian Moran was assigned to John Watson.

Snipers.

John Watson.

Snipers.

_No._

Jesus fucking Christ.

"This isn't..." The papers slid by in his hand, flipping past to slip limply back down, one after another. He turned through the file, page after page, words blurred into a ceaseless disgusting mass that socked him in the stomach again and again. Snipers. John Watson. Suicide. John Watson.

No, no, _no._

"This isn't real. This-" Nausea spiked and he shoved the file back, wrenching away to stare up at Mycroft in horrified disbelief. "What is- this happens in movies, or, or comic books, or- it's not- my god, he never _said._ Not one word, Mycroft. _No."_

Mycroft just looked at him, unfailingly sad. For a long moment still, he still kept his silence, and John felt as if he was drowning.

"Sherlock confirmed it himself, in Germany," he said at last, fingers interlacing over his stomach. His gaze searched downwards, skimming upside-down over the horrible file spread out before them in a white flag of surrender. "It was his first stop, in taking down all of Moriarty's associates. Two months after his faked suicide."

Suicide. Snipers. Suicide.

"He got back in contact with me, and confirmed that Moriarty had publicized the contract on your lives. It was public knowledge, in the international criminal circuit: if Sherlock Holmes lives, then you, Gregory, and Mrs. Hudson were to die."

Snipers. _Snipers._ Jesus Christ, _no._

He'd never said. Never. John had asked him why. He'd never said this. Not _once._

"At that point, Sherlock had very little choice in the matter but to see the job through to completion. The situation had escaped both his control and mine. Despite what he may have told you... it was never his wish to leave London, John."

But he had.

Sherlock had left his beloved London. The streets that he knew better than the back of his own hands, the cases that he lived and breathed with a need deeper than for air, the flat that he called home. He'd left all of it behind without a second thought.

For him.

Oh, fucking _hell._ All this time- all this _time-_

He'd thought Sherlock had left him.

But that wasn't it at all, was it?

John stared back down at the file, a sharp, stabbing panic encroaching in his chest to constrict his lungs, squeezing until each breath was little more than a shallow rasp. Snipers. John Watson. Sherlock had stood up there on that roof and called him, his voice thick with actual _tears_ , and for years he'd hated himself for not being enough to talk him down, and for months he'd hated Sherlock for ever letting him even try when it had always been going to end with a cracked skull bleeding through John's hands and glacier eyes gone dull and staring through him to the sky.

But that wasn't it. That wasn't it at all. Sherlock had curled there on the pavement, and John had begged him to stop, and all the while this man. This Sebastian Moran. This horrible, pathetic, loathsome waste of space, this _scum_ that wasn't even Moriarty at all, just a soulless paid husk, this bastard that John wanted to tear to shreds. He'd been there. He'd had a gun. John had been a hair's breath away from his brain matter splattering over Sherlock's fake blood and he hadn't even _known_. Good god, but Sherlock _had._ Sherlock had lain there, listening to John beg, _watching him_ plead for him to just not do this, to just _please_ not do this, and he'd known that so much as one single word would be enough to get him executed.

Sherlock hadn't left him at all.

He'd left _for_ him.

Oh, god. Oh, _god._

Three bullets. Three snipers. Three lives.

_No._

"How could you not. _Tell me._ I- Mycroft. _How."_ He clutched his head in his hands, panting in and out, and the room faded to empty and spinning in such a haze around him he went dizzy. If he hadn't been sitting down, he would've collapsed. The words were the absolute last thing he should've said, at that moment, but he wasn't angry, not anymore. John would never be angry at Sherlock, never, ever again. The words came out devastated, and it was all he could do to choke them out at all. _"Two years._ You let me- you let _us_ think he was. _Dead._ He did this... this... he _died_ for us, that _bastard,_ and you never, he, he didn't-"

"Have you not adequately comprehended a word that I have said? You would have _died,_ John."

 _"Two years!_ You could've- at _any_ time, oh my god, you could've-"

"You would have _died."_ Mycroft sat back to rub a hand over his face, unspeakably frustrated and so very, very tired. "Your safety was never guaranteed, no matter how hard Sherlock tried. But the danger to you would have increased had you known he was alive. Forgive us for being selfish," he said, in a way that was not asking for forgiveness at all, "but neither of us were willing to abide by even the slightest increase in the danger that we had brought into your lives."

No. _No._ John shook his head and swallowed a moan through clenched teeth. God. It wasn't just him. _Greg._ Greg and Mycroft. Greg didn't know, either. Greg thought Mycroft had lied to him, because he _had,_ just as Sherlock had lied to him, but... _god, you brilliant, selfless, unbelievable idiot. You brilliant bastard. Sherlock..._

It was so fucked up. What they had done was still so fucked up.

But he looked at Mycroft Holmes, his face pale and his hand strained, squeezing at the bridge of nose so tightly it was about to pop, and the truth smacked him right in the face.

Sherlock and Mycroft had been just as victimised as he and Greg.

"Sherlock's rage was... terrifying to behold," Mycroft said, when John did not speak again. The words settled into the suffocating silence like dust, hovering between them with an impossible weight that made each swallow agony. "He was not fully trained for such an operation, and certainly had not volunteered for something so dangerous; before he left he was offered witness protection. A program in America, while MI6 focused on Moriarty. Just until the operation was finished, of course," he amended, with a detached, frail sort of smile. "He would've been a chemistry professor at a small town in rural Ohio.. He would have been miserable. But... safe."

John stared back at Mycroft. Hell. He couldn't breathe. Mycroft, too, looked utterly unhappy; John barely knew at all what to say.

"And?" he croaked, when he finally recovered the ability to talk.

Mycroft closed his eyes, and simply shook his head.

Sherlock. Professor. Middle of nowhere. America. No cases. No excitement. No Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, London.

He wouldn't have been _miserable,_ John thought, and for a bizarre moment almost wanted to cry. He would've lost his mind before the month was out. He would've gone underground to hunt for excitement before the lack of it had killed him.

"Yet, Sherlock was livid," Mycroft told him. He stared down at the file between them, the unbearably thick, agonising file, the two years of Sherlock's life, _sacrifice_. "He wanted to shred every last scrap of Moriarty's former existence from the world himself. He fought like a man possessed. He tore through terrorist cells that would've taken us years in months; I'd finally track him down to China, and a week later he was in South America. I have never seen him like this before, John... he would not rest until he personally had seen that anyone who would have ever done you harm was gone."

God. _God._ Oh, Sherlock.

He could see it in his head. Sherlock, so close to otherworldly, his face pale as snow and his eyes burning and alive, the whole of him possessed with such hot fury it made John's heart race. Sherlock was a temperamental, dramatic child, at times, mad or upset at the drop of a hat on a bad day, but the times John had seen him really angry- really, entirely, _truly angry-_ he could count it on the fingers of one hand. It was a sight to behold.

A breathtaking, terrifying, _violent_ sight.

Moriarty's network hadn't stood a chance.

John shut the file. He was horribly fascinated, but at the same time it was so overwhelming he couldn't face it now. The two years Sherlock had spent abroad. _Saving his life._ This whole time he'd thought he'd been _bored,_ that he'd left for _fun,_ that John had just not been interesting or important enough to cue in to his wild adventures-

And why had he thought that, then?

John swallowed sickly, the rise of nausea and anger sharp in his throat.

He'd thought that, because _Sherlock had never said._

Had he just been supposed to guess this?

Had Sherlock just thought it _wasn't important?_

"He never said this," he rasped. The file was smooth under his hands, crinkling again as he patted a hand to it, tracing the horrible words with his thumb. "I swear to god, Mycroft. He never said- not a _word."_

"I believe you."

"He-" John buried his face in his hands again, steadying his hands in the clutch at his hair. " _How could he not say?_ I asked him, the day he came back I fucking asked him, and he didn't- not a _word!_ Was I just meant to _guess?!_ I asked him that whole night _why,_ and he never... not to me, or Greg, or Mrs. Hudson..."

"Mrs. Hudson has likely made several deductions of her own," Mycroft pointed out, raising an eyebrow. "She's always had a rather keen understanding of my brother's heart."

Suddenly, their landlady's full stop, absolute, and unconditional forgiveness of Sherlock, upon his return, made a whole lot more sense.

Their _landlady_ had figured it out. No offense meant to Mrs. Hudson, of course; she was so wonderful, and Sherlock meant so much more to her than just a tenant, but- she'd figured it out on her own. John was his best friend. This was his _best friend,_ and their bloody _landlady_ had seen it before him. Best friend. Had been. Was he still? The things he'd said to Sherlock slammed back into him and his stomach tightened, the taste of bile in his throat. He didn't know. Oh, _god,_ the way he'd treated him since he'd come back. How horrible he'd been to him. For. For _saving his life._

If Sherlock didn't want to be his friend anymore, John wouldn't even be able to blame him.

But fucking hell, how was he supposed to have _known?_

He'd asked Sherlock. He'd asked him the day Sherlock had waltzed back into his life like he was walking off the set of a James Bond movie, pouring champagne, telling fantastical stories of traveling abroad for two years, sparring off with the Jim Moriarities of the world- what the hell had he been meant to think?! He would've listened if Sherlock had said. He still would've been hurt and angry and confused, he was _still_ hurt and angry and confused, but if Sherlock had just said, he would've listened. He'd desperately been _wanting_ to listen, to have his best friend tell him anything at all that wasn't _I let you think I killed myself because you weren't important enough to bother sending off so much as a single text._

Once again, all he would've needed was one word.

And he hadn't gotten it.

Sherlock had _lied._

For six months, now, he'd been lying.

And John had been so pissed off at that lie, he'd never even tried to look past it and see the truth.

"I don't have any answers for you, John," Mycroft finally gave, his voice unhappy and slow. John stared desperately back at him and the politician just shook his head, mouth a tight line of displeasure. "I hadn't known he didn't tell you. I can't hazard a guess as to why."

"He's your _brother."_

"Yes, and I understand how his brain works better than you could ever hope to. However, when it comes to the matters of the heart, I'm afraid I am ill-equipped to help." He managed a somewhat grim smile, but it was helpless in a way that left John spectacularly alone. "You are Sherlock's friend. His only friend. Whatever it is that is in his heart, I am unable to translate. You understand it far better than I ever will."

His only friend.

Was he?

Was he _still?_

The final argument that they'd had slammed back into the forefront of his mind. The things he'd done. The things he'd _said._

John wanted to throw up.

The things he'd said...

God. Oh, _god._ No. He hadn't said that to him. He _couldn't_ have. No.

It didn't matter that Sherlock had lied to him. It didn't matter that Sherlock had hidden all of this from him, and strolled back into his life so flippant and indifferent it had been just _begging_ John not to look any deeper. He should have. There was no excuse. Sherlock was his best friend. He should never have let this happen. He should _never_ have let it get this far.

"I need a drink. I need-" He shook his head, pushing to his feet and suddenly needing nothing more than to just get out of that room. John crossed straight to the kitchen and reached out blindly, his fingers grabbing for the nearest bottle that he knew was there and swallowed the first mouthful. The burn was welcome, painful and horrible in his throat, and he swallowed again, the only thought in his mind the oncoming, lightheaded fuzz that would muffle out the dawning sense of horror suffocating in from all sides. "I need..."

"I'm rather sure the last thing you could possibly need, at the moment, is a _drink."_

"You don't- shut up. Shut up, this is insane, this-"

"Do I really need to lay out all of the increasingly worrisome signs that you know I've noticed for you to see?" Mycroft didn't move to stop him, didn't even move to turn back to face him,, but the lofty words cut back to turn the swallow to ice in his throat. "Believe me, I have no opinion on whether you wish to waste yourself in alcohol or not. It's certainly not _my_ business. But if you have any intention being of any sort of help to my brother, then you certainly can not do so while drunk."

John stiffened so abruptly he nearly spat the mouthful back into the bottle.

Damn Mycroft Holmes. Damn him and his infuriating deductions straight to hell.

Damn him, for being _right._

John swallowed hard once, shuddering all the way down to the base of his spine.

Then, without any room for so much as a second thought, he shook his head to himself, and started pouring the bottle down the sink.

He'd let himself be drunk before. So many nights when Sherlock had slipped out of the flat with nothing more than a turned up coat collar and the rapid patter of his feet on the stairs, apparently in severe need of a friend, but of course John hadn't bloody well known that, and Sherlock had gone to seek out Greg's sofa instead of him. He'd been drunk or well on his way to it, the night they'd had that horrible argument and Sherlock had walked out and hadn't come back. He'd spent a solid chunk of the last two years drunk because Sherlock had been fucking _dead._ He'd known exactly what he was doing this entire time, he'd known he was following Harry's path, he'd known he was turning into his own father, he'd just never _cared._ There'd never been anything that mattered enough for him to want to stop.

Sherlock mattered.

Sherlock mattered, and John hated himself for ever managing to forget that.

 _Not again,_ he promised, watching as the rest of the amber whiskey swirled easily down the drain. He tapped the neck of the bottle against the sink, shaking it until there was nothing left but dregs. That wasn't going to happen again.

He set the bottle aside, when it ran empty. Hesitated on reaching for a second, gauging whether it was necessary or not, his back still hunched and turned to Mycroft, the glass chilling in his hand.

Another memory turned sour flickered through his mind. Sherlock, standing across from him right there in the kitchen, his eyes hard as frigid glass and his face an angry, primal mask, like a wounded animal. Tearing his arm back from John's grasp, as if his fingertips alone had scorched his skin. Jerking his long sleeves down over the track marks that John had finally just shouted out as the elephant in the room that had been staring them in the face this whole time, as if hiding them was enough to make them disappear.

Something horrified settled back in his throat again.

"Mycroft," he started, wary. "What happened in Serbia?"

He didn't want to turn around. He didn't want to see the look on his face and make a deduction of his own. To realise even before Mycroft said anything at all, _you messed up again, John Watson._

The lack of an immediate answer, however, left a silence that was perhaps worse than anything else could have been.

"I'm don't think it's fair that I answer that question," Mycroft said finally. The words were carefully detached, as if he was trying very hard to keep them that way. "Not without Sherlock's input."

 _Fuck it;_ and John was back in the sitting room, his heart racing and trepidation solidifying all the way to his toes. "No," he snapped, a finger right in Mycroft's ashen face. "You mentioned it before, you said something about Serbia, and I don't even know what you were talking about. What else has Sherlock not been telling me? I didn't even know he'd _been_ to Serbia, Mycroft; what happened to him there?"

What other horrible things had he missed? God, there was more. How could there be _more._ Sherlock had died to save him, he'd lost two years of his life to it and hadn't said a word, the fucking bastard, and now there was more. More horrible things, more things he didn't want to know, more things that he'd missed because he was an idiot, that had clearly been wrong this entire time and he just hadn't _seen it._ The look on Mycroft's face was bad enough, but staring down at him all John could see was the raw light of Sherlock's eyes, when he'd thrown the track marks back in his face.

" _Tell me!"_

No matter how much he didn't want to hear it, John knew there wasn't a choice. Not anymore.

He could not continue to run from this.

The pale look on Mycroft's face turned even colder, somehow. His eyes remaining distant, the politician reached out to delicately thumb the file again, tapping a finger down along the edge. He opened his mouth several times, then stopped, as if struggling to decide just how exactly he should start.

John sank back into his previously vacated seat, nails digging at his knees and back coiling tight like a spring, and waited.

"This was dangerous work," Mycroft murmured finally. "As I'm sure you can imagine. Sherlock was trained for this, and he is quite intelligent, but he faced nearly insurmountable disadvantages for the entirety of these two years. It grew even more dangerous as time went on, when the remaining branches of Moriarty's network could hardly be unaware that someone of Sherlock's caliber was coming after them. He was, I'm sure, captured a number of times."

John took in a measured breath, willing himself to remain calm. "Is that what happened in Serbia, then?" he asked. His voice came out steady. "He was- captured."

Mycroft nodded once, in a short, unhappy jerk. "I know Sherlock allowed himself to be captured intentionally several times. Serbia was not... that, though he has tried to claim otherwise to me." He sighed bitterly, breaking John's gaze again to watch wistfully out the window instead, seemingly lost in thought. "He made a grave miscalculation, and I was forced to intervene myself, to secure his release seven weeks after the fact. It was the first time I had seen Sherlock since he left London."

Seven weeks. John let out a measured breath again, holding himself very, very still. Just listen, he told himself. _Don't jump to conclusions. Don't make assumptions. Just listen. You asked to hear this. Just listen._

Seven weeks.

"Sherlock was recognised as an MI6 agent, and interrogated. For information he was never meant to have, but of course, he'd deduced it on his own anyway. Luckily for you, they never learned his real name or identity at all. He kept his cover, even then."

Seven weeks. _Interrogated._

"While he has been rather reluctant to explain exactly what they did to him, his medical records show enough." He tapped the thick file again, this time slipping it open with his thumb and letting it spill all the way to the end. Xrays. A surgical report. Blood tests a mile long. Head scan. _Head scan._ Sherlock's huge, stupid, brilliant brain. And there was a head scan because they'd broken it. "It seems that he proved sufficiently resistant to their usual methods, and inspired them to work somewhat more... creatively."

John was barely listening.

Seven weeks. Head scan. Fucking head scan. It wasn't at all John's speciality, and the scan was a low quality copy at that, but even he could see injury. Bleeding. Swelling. Fracture. _Fracture._ Sherlock could've died, or been left a vegetable, or _died,_ and he'd never have known. _Fuck._ They'd hurt Sherlock's magnificent, precious _head,_ and all the while, John had been safe back in London, wasting time with his ridiculous book and clearing Sherlock's name, and he'd never once known.

"...John."

He jolted. "I- sorry." His throat thick, John slapped the file back shut, covering the pages and pages delineating all that had gone wrong, the efforts gone to piece back together Sherlock's _transport_ after he'd gone and had it broken so spectacularly. Reports he probably shouldn't even have been looking at, because Sherlock clearly did not want for him to know. For anyone to know. God. _God._ "Sorry," he said again, his gaze wrenched back to meet Mycroft's.

By Mycroft's grim, strained nod, it was clear that he understood.

"Sherlock clearly has a past with illicit substances. One only has to look at his arms to see it," Mycroft said quietly. "The use of illegal drugs to alter neurochemistry and emotional states in interrogation is also quite common, especially in certain eastern European criminal circuits. It is a particularly cost-effective method, and to disastrous effect."

The track marks.

The track marks.

The track marks that John had thrown back in Sherlock's face.

The _recent_ track marks.

He was going to be sick.

"Did they-" he choked out; the words scraped as broken glass in his throat. "Did it. Was Sherlock-"

"No. It was not effective. He maintained his silence, even-"

"I don't care about that! Jesus, Mycroft! I don't care if he told Serbia how the Queen likes her tea; I'm asking if he's _okay!_ For god's sake!"

"...Ah. Of course." Mycroft broke his gaze again, bowing his head behind steepled fingers. Just like Sherlock. "Apologies." This wasn't happening. No.

Of course he wasn't okay. Of course he wasn't fucking okay.

"They dosed him with heroin," Mycroft said at length, his eyes narrowed. He looked foul, venomous, as if he would quite like to hit something. "Repeatably and consistently. High doses, designed to lead to tolerance, as fast as possible. When he was sufficiently chemically dependent, they forced withdrawal, and the interrogations resumed. Sherlock tells me that I extracted him on the fourth cycle."

"Jesus." Then, he said it again. " _Jesus."_

If Mycroft hadn't already killed them first, then John would hunt them down himself, right now, and personally tear each and everyone of these people to shreds.

He wished he could.

Opiate addiction was notoriously difficult to kick, and the withdrawal was infamously painful. John didn't know if Sherlock had a past with it; Sherlock had clearly disliked being forced to speak about his drug history, and John had determined it to be not his business, so he had never asked. But whether he'd had used it before or not, seven weeks was more than enough time to force dependency, and in the conditions he'd been in- _god._ The withdrawal was torture enough on its own. Torture. _Torture._ Mycroft said interrogation, but that was what it was, wasn't it? They'd tortured him. They'd tortured them, then turned his own body against him, they'd _hurt_ him and John hadn't known. Sherlock had done this all _for him,_ and he'd never even fucking known.

He should've protected him. Should've been there, should've- should've-

_Why didn't you ever tell me, Sherlock?_

_Why didn't you ever say anything?_

"Is he-" he choked, "is he... _okay?"_ He swallowed painfully, panting in and out, his head spinning. "I mean. Of course he's not, he's obviously not. But- god, Mycroft, he needed rehab, proper treatment-" He probably _still did,_ John realised, his stomach clenching. If Greg was right, Sherlock was clean, but that was one test. Tests were easy for a bloody graduate chemist to fake. And after everything he'd heard today- "Don't tell me you just sent him straight back out there! Not after that, not-"

"Of course not." Mycroft waved a dismissive hand, looking affronted. "When I extracted Sherlock, I had him sent immediately to the best acute care and chemical dependency unit available. He was astonishingly cooperative, at that- I believe two years of constant injury at least taught him to be somewhat responsible with his health." He went quiet for several moments, still watching the thick file between them with those narrowed, distressed eyes. "A three-month inpatient rehab program was also recommended, but Sherlock would not consent that far, and I would not take the choice from him. Not without further proof that he was in danger of a relapse."

"It shouldn't have been up to him! Not that much!" John pressed his fingers against his forehead, bewildered and horrified. It felt like Baker Street had disintegrated, crumbling into a stranger's sitting room that made no sense, and everything familiar was gone. Mycroft would meddle in Sherlock's life to the point of kidnapping potential flatmates, but when it came to making sure he was safe, was _clean,_ he suddenly lost his controlling streak and let him run wild? "He was at an incredibly high danger for relapse! No matter what he _said;_ he could only have been at a higher risk if you released him straight into a drug den! Especially if you just- shoved him back out into-"

"He was livid," Mycroft hissed, suddenly venomous, "had been hurt a very great deal, and had just survived a living hell. All he was asking of me was the freedom to come home. He still had stitches, John. I was not going to insist upon locking him back up, punishing for something that he had had no choice in, when in his current condition that would've likely only distressed him more. Something that would've _increased_ his chance at relapse, that you're so worried about," he pointed out, then sighed, pinching a hand at the bridge of his nose again. " _Especially_ when he would've simply slipped the guards and just caught the next train back to London."

John stopped short.

Come home.

Come home.

London.

No. This could not get worse. It wasn't happening. This was not going to get _worse._

He choked back a dry swallow of air, licking his lips. "He. He came home, then?" The words came out in a wrecked parody of an attempt at calm; John could hear how pathetic it was himself, and he saw it reflected back at him, in the knowing look Mycroft sent back his way. "This was-. That. ...how soon after this did he come back here?"

"John."

" _How soon?"_

There was another long, dispassionate breath of a sigh. John sat silently, helpless to do anything at all but wait for his answer. It felt like an iron ball was crushing his chest, every breath cut short and painful in the shock of it.

"Twenty-seven days, post extraction," Mycroft admitted, finally. "He was remarkably insistent that he had to return home to see you as soon as possible."

And that was it. That, right there, was the end.

Because it could not get any worse than this.

This had all been right before he'd come home. He'd been in hospital, injured, in pain; treatment recommended for months more. He'd needed rehab; hell, he'd needed a bloody vacation. A nice cottage in Sussex at a spa for months sounded about right, after what he'd been through. Even though he'd hate it. Even though he'd lose his mind before the weekend was out. Even though Sherlock would probably fill out all of Greg's paperwork before he willingly went to a _spa._

He'd likely been released the morning of or before. That night that John had seen him in the restaurant, Sherlock had probably been in hospital just as recently as the night before.

This whole time, John had thought Sherlock had just willfully cast him aside without a second thought. That he'd strolled back into that restaurant that night simply because it had been convenient for him; because he'd needed help with Mycroft's damn case and that was that.

But Sherlock had come to him the very moment the danger was gone. He'd come straight to him from _hospital._

_He still had stitches, John._

And John had hit him.

John took a deep breath, eyes closed as he got to his feet again, moving away just for the sake of it; because he couldn't bear to sit still any longer. He paced away to keep his back to Mycroft, staring at the room with his heart in his throat. The mess of Sherlock's papers, the spare scarf that had been left balled in the corner for four weeks straight, now, the violin case. Untouched for months.

This, surely, was everything.

Sherlock had thrown himself off a roof to save him. Him, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. He had willingly sacrificed his life, his home, and the closest thing to a family that he had, and he'd torn after Moriarty's network on a vengeful war path, systematically burning every last branch to the ground in order to keep them all safe. He had looked down at John from that roof and said _I lied_ and _I'm sorry,_ his voice thick with tears, and John still couldn't fully understand why Sherlock would've said such things, but in the end, it didn't matter.

Because it ended with Sherlock being willing to die for them.

God, not just willing.

He _had_.

He had worked for two years, to make them safe. John had been furious at Sherlock, for blowing off what _he'd_ spent those two years doing, the hard work _he'd_ put in to clear his name, and now he knew Sherlock had been pressed twice as hard as he had been, likely just to stay alive. Sherlock and Mycroft had chosen to keep this all secret from him, willing to let him believe for two years he'd let his best friend kill himself, hadn't trusted he'd be able to keep it secret enough to be safe. They'd put him through hell for two years and made the choice to put him through that hell, deciding that minute degree of safety was worth the agonising guilt and grief they'd left him with instead.

Sherlock had been hurt. Badly. Sherlock had been sodding tortured, and then walked back into London, and John, instead of taking care of him, welcoming him back home, and telling him how much he'd _missed him,_ had made him bleed. Again and again and again. John had surely torn his stitches on the floor of that bloody restaurant, and Sherlock hadn't ever said a word.

Sherlock had lied to him. He had spent that entire night lying through his teeth, and inadvertently or not, had left John behind that night with a sore fist and feeling like little more than dirt underneath Sherlock's fancy shoes. He'd spent six months, now, lying about why he'd left, lying about why he had never told John he was alive, and those lies had only made everything worse. They'd put John through hell all over again, and he still had no idea why Sherlock hadn't just told him the truth from the day he'd gotten back.

Sherlock had now been back home for six months. Doing better than, honestly, John would have expected. He did not seem to have relapsed, despite surely enduring withdrawal, cravings, and a complete lack of a support system for months. He'd been smart enough to seek out Greg's flat whenever he had a rough night, rather than trying to stubbornly bulldoze his way through it all alone. A warmth spread in his stomach, and John found himself stunned to be able to say he was _proud_ of him. For such a self-destructive, self-contained catastrophe, that John remembered from before those two horrible years, Sherlock had been coping remarkably well.

But he shouldn't have had to.

John should've realised something was wrong. He should've paid more attention and seen Sherlock gone silent and wary, alternately twitchy and still as a statute, the brash, bodacious confidence from before entirely stamped out underneath an unsettled unease that made John sick to his stomach just to think about. He should've seen his best friend had been hurt and needed support, instead of- god, just to think of how he'd treated Sherlock, these past months... treated him for _saving his life..._

Well, it stopped now.

This was the turning point. John could feel it. This was his one chance, to fix things, and he was not going to let it pass. Sherlock still had a lot to answer for, and he certainly wasn't blameless, in all of this, but this time, John wasn't going to just ask why. John was going to listen, and he was going to keep listening until he got the full truth. He was going to fix this.

And more than anything else, he was _not_ going to let these goddamn _bastards_ take Sherlock away from him before he got that chance.

"I'm going back to Scotland Yard. For whatever help I can be." He turned away to tug for his jacket, meeting Mycroft's startled, wide eyes head on. "I'm telling Greg this. _All_ of this," he amended. "Because he deserves to know."

Mycroft winced, a little, clearly not a fan of this idea. It was one that John was going to stand his ground on, though, and something of that must have shown in his face, because the politician did not argue and instead allowed it to pass without protest. "John," he said instead, fingers passing in their steady rhythm over the file again.

John waited, watching him without a word.

"I will give you this second chance," he said quietly. "It is now quite clear Sherlock has been keeping secrets from you, in a manner that has made everything so much worse than it already was. I can not blame you for that." He narrowed his eyes, watching John as a venomous snake, coiled and ready to strike. "If something of this nature happens again, however... I can assure you, I will not be quite so forgiving as to give you a third."

John merely grinned back.

"You don't have to worry, Mycroft. I won't need one."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always welcome and appreciated! <3


	7. Back to the Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, an update- I am so sorry for the delay, and for how short this chapter is (and how it's a temporary step back)- lots of apologies, this time ;-; I wanted to post the next chapter with this one, because I know we want John to be a good friend now after spending six chapters dragging him there. But this scene needs to happen , I wanted to post now, because I've left you all hanging with nothing for just so long, and the next chapter just isn't ready yet :(
> 
> Please see the end notes for this one, important housekeeping to talk about there. And, as always, remember I do strive at redeeming John in the end <3

* * *

**| R E W I N D |**

**May 14 2014**

* * *

"John?"

John closed his eyes, and counted to five.

"I said shut up, Sherlock."

Not today.

Not today.

There was another short silence. John kept his focus entirely down on the kitchen table, and completely and utterly ignored the creak of the chair that was Sherlock shifting, behind him.

There was a mark on the table, there. The wood stained permanently, three shades lighter than it should have been, courtesy of one lazy pipette session, from one arrogant, bull-headed idiot who was too lazy to just lay out a cover over the table.

He scratched it idly with his thumb. Some of the ruined paint chipped off, flaking, and John glared at it. If it hadn't already been a wreck to begin with, then it certainly was now.

"If... that is what you want."

John closed his eyes again, and this time, counted to ten.

No food in, of course. Hadn't checked the fridge, but there'd be no reason to. He wasn't eating dinner spiced with formaldehyde. Not tonight, not _bloody tonight._

Sherlock, quite mercifully, kept his mouth shut after that.

John counted to fifteen, and then, got to his feet, and snatched a bottle of whiskey straight out of the cabinet.

Perhaps the only upside to living with Sherlock Holmes, he considered darkly, and tipped himself out a tumbler. The food might always end up inedible and stored next to body parts, and heaven forbid the fridge ever be stocked with anything John had not bought himself- but he could drink all that he liked, because Sherlock would barely touch it.

He drained one glass. The unsettled burn of anger lived on in his chest, a hot sting behind his eyes and in his lungs. It wasn't enough. It wasn't even close to enough. He tasted just the edge of what he wanted, that tantalizing numbness that had been his best friend when his _actual_ best friend had been fucking dead, and before he'd even really thought about it, John poured out a second.

"...but I do feel obligated to reiterate that, contrary to what appears to be popular belief, I was not being deliberately obtuse or antagonizing. I maintain what I said before: I do not understand why you went to the trouble. It was a waste of time, John."

No. No. Not tonight. Just- not tonight, he did _not_ want _this_ tonight. He didn't-

John squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, and counted to twenty.

 _Sherlock fucking Holmes_ never could keep his mouth shut.

He tossed back the second tumbler, and it was over before he'd swallowed.

"Hm? A waste of time, you said?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered up to meet his, barely passing over him at all before they just slid back down to his laptop. "You appear to be on your way to becoming intoxicated. This is not the appropriate time to conduct this conversation."

In that moment, John could've hit him.

It was a near thing, as it was. He didn't swing the fist at his head, but _god_ did a part of him want to, to smack that smart, infuriating mouth right off him.

Did Sherlock think this was funny? Did Sherlock think this just wasn't a big deal?

John couldn't stop himself from raising his hand, but used it to grab the waiting book, instead, and rather than throw a punch, he threw it down down to the cushion on Sherlock's side and he _dared_ the arse to flinch. "I agreed with you. About ten seconds ago, I agreed with you. I told you to shut up. You could've stopped talking. You could've let it go, for once in your life. But you didn't, did you, Sherlock? Hm? So guess what: _we're talking about it."_

Sherlock's dangerous eyes flickered again. His eyes, the tumbler, his laptop, the book, back. Eyes that had once been enigmatic and exotic and brilliant, but now in the weak flicker of the dying lightbulb in the kitchen had turned shadowed and watery; a glass of spilled milk.

He said nothing still. Not at first.

And once again, John really could've hit him.

"...I reiterate, then," he said quietly. Without quite looking at John, he thumbed the spine of the book- wouldn't open it. Wouldn't ever read it. "This was a waste of time. I was dead, John. There was no need for you to clear my name or restore my honour. Those efforts could have been much better spent dedicated to the living."

If he kept needing to count up like this, soon they were going to be left sitting in dead silence while John counted ten minutes away. Fuck, he needed a new therapist.

"Did you need the money?" Sherlock started after a moment, gaze darting upwards. "I made it clear to Mycroft, he was to-"

"No. _No,_ you daft fucking tosser, it wasn't- you think it was for the _money?!"_

The restrained, somewhat blank sort of look on Sherlock's face suggested- yes, in fact, he really did. He really looked at that book, and he looked at John, and the conclusion he'd come to was, _must've been for the money._

His life's story sold by Mycroft to a psychopath, and then John to media vultures. He really did think that little of him.

If John hadn't already crossed the room, leaving the bottle behind, he would've poured out a third drink.

"Do you have any idea how- how _hard_ this was to do? How many months I spent, how many people I had to track down, the research-" His voice broke, a lump forming in his throat "Do you have any idea how _hard_ it was, to talk about you at all when you were dead?"

But Sherlock just waved a dismissive hand, as unaffected and calm as ever. Hell, he barely even _looked_ at John. "I spent a semester in university learning how to rehair my bow on my own. The difficulty of a task does not always correlate to its worth- and I do still maintain my earlier point," he said glibly, risen smoothly to his feet to brush John aside like he was know more interesting than a lamp. "You are very emotionally charged, at the moment, and on your way to becoming intoxicated. Past evidence suggests that we should postpone this conversation to a later time, if we wish for it to be productive."

And, that, apparently, was that.

The detective simply flounced straight by, his dressing gown swirling as he padded for the kitchen without another look. There was a further clatter of dishes and lab instruments, such a loud, cacophonous fuss, like a clumsy child clanging on a drumset, and that really was Sherlock, wasn't it? A clumsy, arrogant, noisy child, flinging paint on the walls and crashing cymbals, not to irritate or bother anyone but just because he was so self-adsorbed it had never once occurred to him that he wasn't the only one in the house listening. High-functioning _sociopath,_ indeed-

There was another resounding clatter from behind him, the sound of what was certainly yet another toxic experiment that would leave the kitchen uninhabitable for a week. _Again._

John's count up, this time to thirty, was tossed off the tracks just before he hit thirteen.

Fuck this. Just _fuck it._

"I wrote that book because for the first three months after you died, I couldn't do _anything,_ Sherlock. I was more miserable than I had ever been in my life, and every time I even managed to leave the house, it was for some reporter or other to track me down to try and ask me about you being _a fraud._ Because I was going mad and I hated myself and this was all I could do for you, and I wanted to do something for you, because I guess I really was just that bloody stupid. Because I couldn't even see my therapist anymore, because she believed you were a fraud, too, and I needed a therapist, because _you were dead,_ and it was my _fault!"_

Sherlock stood silently in the kitchen, glass forgotten in one hand. He watched John with those dammed unreadable eyes, his face stony and chalk-white.

It was better than a fake mustache and a stupid, childish grin.

That was about it.

John sharpened his words as a finely tuned scalpel. Because he _wanted_ this to hurt. Sherlock had hurt him, immeasurably and unforgivably, and for _once_ in his carefree, blase existence, Sherlock deserved to feel the hurt back. He _deserved_ to feel some tiny, pathetic scrape of the gaping hole that he had torn through John and left raw and bleeding for two entire years without remorse.

"I wanted to clear your name to show the world they were wrong. Stupid me, huh?" He laughed bitterly, throwing his hands up. "It bothered me, that everyone thought you were something to be mocked. That I knew Donovan was down at the Yard, making her bones off your back. That officers who'd never be even a fraction as smart as you were making jokes about you being a braindead idiot. I knew you were smart, anyone with two brain cells to rub together to see that, but that wasn't it, Sherlock; wanted to show the world how _good_ of a person you really were."

He'd been stagnating. Trapped in a hole of utter misery and survivor's guilt, haunted by the weight of his best friend's blood on his hands and knowing that the most brilliant, the- the _best_ person he'd ever known, had thrown himself off a rooftop. Had stood up there and said goodbye and jumped. Because John hadn't been enough to talk him down.

But the very worst part of it all, had been walking out into London every day, and knowing he was surrounded by people who had never and would never be able to see that Sherlock Holmes hadn't just been a genius. He'd been the wisest, bravest, most human human being, that John had ever known.

And that was two years ago, before Sherlock had waltzed back into his life with a fake accent and a marker mustache, and had the gall to act surprised that John hadn't just put his own existence on hold to wait for him.

"Yeah, Sherlock," he said, when the slim detective still stood there in silence, watching him with those dammable quicksilver eyes like glass, that quiet quirk about the mouth that suggested he had something smart and cruel to say because he _always_ did. "I couldn't bear it, that everyone in the city thought you were a monster, when here I was, stupid, old, normal John Watson-"

"John, I've never-"

"- _thinking_ that you were the best person I'd ever known."

The look on Sherlock's face shifted. Hardening, like ice. Closed off and silent, his ordinary expressiveness completely shut down behind a wall of stone.

He'd been heard.

 _I_ thought _you were the best person I knew._

_And I know now that I was wrong._

He'd never been more wrong about anything in his life- barring that day, perhaps, when he'd allowed Mike Stamford to talk him into moving with a hurricane, because for some reason, he hadn't realised that in the end, he wasn't special. That hurricane would tear him apart just as it tore apart everything else.

That was to be the end of that, then. John had nothing else that he wanted to say, on the matter, had never wanted to talk about it all, and more than that, there were perhaps no other words primed so perfectly to slip right through the detective's prickly porcupine shell and jab at his core. If he even had feelings that could be hurt. It should've been enough, as John started to turn away, breathing hard through his nose and hands trembling, fingers clutched together, but his tongue had been loosened tonight, and suddenly he just could not shut up.

"And if you _really_ want to fucking know, Sherlock," he snarled, finger jabbed into his thin chest. Sherlock's eyes narrowed unflinchingly, but whatever was going on in _his_ head, John rage had caught fire and wasn't going out. "I donated all the money to the SANE charity for suicide prevention. So at least _something_ good came out of it, hm?"

"John-"

"And the next time you even _think_ , about opening your mouth because I took a drink- _don't."_

John grabbed his arm, pushing up the dressing gown's sleeve with one hand and holding his wrist in place with the other. Sherlock had gone stock still, not even trying to stop him, and John was free to turn his arm around and expose the pale skin to the harsh gleam of the lights and the marks there for both of them to see. The lights that weren't necessary, because they both knew exactly what there was to find.

Track marks. Scars in his inner elbows. Ugly and damming and undeniable.

New ones.

So far, John hadn't bothered to mention it. He didn't want to know what Sherlock had gotten up to while he was away.

But if Sherlock wasn't going to let this go, then _fine._ Fine!

If Sherlock wanted to talk about this, then they'd fucking talk about it.

"I'm not blind," he hissed. "I know you didn't have _these_ before you left."

If Sherlock could adventure around the world, partying on cocaine and heroin, probably with his feet kicked up at a club or at the bloody beach, then the very least he could do was not turn around and judge John, for having a drink after a hard day.

Sherlock's face went hard, his eyes glassy and ice cold. He yanked his arm back and pulled his sleeve down in the same motion, tense and coiled as a spring, and for the first time there was a glimmer of _something_ there, something more than unaffected genius, and god it made him a terrible person that that reaction was all he'd really wanted.

"I'm clean now, John," Sherlock snapped.

"I don't really care if you are or if you're not." John slammed down his own glass so hard he heard a crack, and it was only because he knew exactly how expensive that microscope was that he didn't sweep it off the table. He kept his back turned as he dug for his phone, instead, preparing to just order takeout and be done with it. Takeout, yes, that was the best answer for a day like today; a bag of something he could just carry up to his room and slam the door behind him. Takeout, and an early night, and hopefully an early morning tomorrow, so he could just get to the surgery and pretend none of this had ever happened.

John had just gotten through the first three numbers for the Greek takeout place, when the words came again.

"If you truly do find me this detestable now, then I don't know why you moved back in at all. If you want nothing more to do with me, then you don't have to be here, John."

He huffed a laugh through his nose, the lump back in his throat. "You manipulative arse." His hands were shaking again. "You. You manipulative-" He spun back around to face Sherlock once and for all, and there he was, impassive as ever, tall and lean as a bloody tree but his face utterly closed off, and how _dare_ he? How dare he tear John to pieces like this, and then just stand there as unbothered and unaffected as a rock? He'd screamed at Moriarty, he'd chased his brother out the door with his violin, he'd bellow at Mrs. Hudson, he'd whine at Lestrade- but John wasn't even worth that much! Not to Sherlock Holmes, no.

To him, John wasn't even worth getting worked up over.

"I wrote that _fucking book_ because you were my best friend and I loved you, Sherlock! Some big mistake that was, wasn't it?!" he shouted. "I wanted everyone to see how amazing you really were, and what were you doing, hm; gallivanting around the Bahamas with Moriarty's people, having a grand old time-"

" _I only did those things because I love you!"_

John hit him.

He didn't mean to. He certainly hadn't intended to. And it wasn't even hard. It was a slap across the face, no teeth or stupid cheekbones at risk; he'd hit Sherlock harder that day just outside of Irene's house, and he'd hit him harder more than once the day he'd come back from the dead. Sherlock didn't even look as if he cared, head barely turned to the side, the redness barely a glow on his porcelain cheek.

But it happened, and the floodgates were gone.

"Love," John repeated back, twisting the word into a mocking pejorative. " _Love._ As if you have _any idea_ what it actually feels like, to love another person. You. You-"

"What? Psychopath?" Sherlock challenged, his blue eyes still unreadable and hard as ice. "Heartless machine? Monster?"

"You freak."

Quiet fell in the flat.

John turned his back, quietly recollecting the bottle of whiskey up from the kitchen table, and sat down facing away from Sherlock without another word.

He barely paid enough attention to notice, when Sherlock left the flat in complete silence, just a few minutes later.

When Sherlock was being wrestled into the boot of a car, drugged, bound, and unconscious, near sunrise and just a few blocks from Baker Street, John was warm up in his own bed, whiskey bottle empty, and trying not to listen to the traitorous little whisper in the back of his head that said it'd have been best if Sherlock had never come back at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important housekeeping: as you can see, there are now three chapters left, including the epilogue. This is also unfortunately timed, because once I finish my current project, I need to take my laptop in for repairs, and they've told me it's very likely they'll need to hold onto it for at least a week. I have no other way to write or update (but will still be checking my email, reading comments!)
> 
> Therefore, my plan is to work on proofreading the next two chapters (it's a bit of a mess atm), and I'll update right before I take my computer to the apple store, and right when I get it back. That'll leave just the epilogue. I'm also backing up my computer of course, so if something goes wrong, no worries, I won't lose the fic. Apologies for having to do this, especially after such a long delay for this tiny update, but I've been putting this off for months as is and my battery is just dead.
> 
> Feedback is always welcome and appreciated, and hopefully, I'll be back in about two weeks with a long chapter! <3


	8. I Believe in Sherlock Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the comments/kudos!!! Again, see this chapter's end notes for a status update on how the last two chapters are going to come <3

**June 15 2014**

In the end, they didn't find Sherlock.

John's renewed investment in it simply hadn't mattered. Greg had already been devoting all the police resources that he could into the investigation, and Mycroft- John didn't want to even think about how much money and manpower and dedication, the politician had searched with, to look for his little brother. In the end, John's paltry efforts and resources, compared to theirs, had been nothing. Had amounted to next to nothing.

And that was what all of their combined efforts had yielded.

Nothing.

They didn't find him.

And in the end-

Mycroft, apparently, had been forced to give in.

John still didn't have a full answer on just who these people were, or what they wanted from Mycroft, or how they were using Sherlock to get it. It was classified and well above John's paygrade, reeking of Mycroft's army of black cars, Anthea clones, and ability to control the CCTV network at a mere whim. He didn't get to know the specifics, and neither did Greg.

All he _did_ know, was that Mycroft had run out of time.

He either capitulated to the foreign agents' demands, or Sherlock would suffer the consequences.

He capitulated.

John, as it turned out, didn't really give a fuck, about the British government having their hand to force into some sort of shitty deal with Russia over Sherlock's head.

All he wanted was for Sherlock to be safe. He just wanted Sherlock to come home.

And that, too, was what Mycroft had promised him.

The people responsible this gained nothing by hurting Sherlock. Even now, Mycroft remained insistent on that. And it made sense to John. Sherlock was their bargaining chip; hurting him would only serve to jeopardize whatever deal they were trying to make, that Mycroft would not explain. If they hurt Sherlock, then the deal would be off, and the full weight of the British Government himself would come down on them without mercy.

If they hurt Sherlock, never mind Mycroft. _John_ would come down on them.

There wouldn't be enough left of them to identify their damn bodies.

But, Mycroft had promised airily, in that calm, detached way of his, none of that would be necessary. Because Sherlock was fine. Because Sherlock _would be_ fine.

Sherlock would be home, soon.

End of the week, was the final word of it. Negotiations were going well. He would have gained his brother's release by the end of the week.

There were other things, there, that he knew Mycroft wasn't saying. Things above John's paygrade yet again, and things that weren't allowed to be said aloud as the politician sat there in his cushy office at the Diogenes Club, sipping tea and watching his email with narrowed eyes. Words like _justice_ that really meant _revenge._

The phrase _consequences,_ that translated into _nobody touches my little brother._

John didn't ask.

He wanted to. By god, he fucking wanted to. He'd been messing things up for six months straight, he'd been _useless_ this entire time. And maybe he was flat out pathetic as an investigator without Sherlock, maybe he was horrible at being supportive, maybe he was just a terrible friend, but this was one thing he _was_ good at. He was good at punching the brains out of anybody who looked at him or Sherlock and thought they could get away with hurting his best friend. He was good at it. He _wanted_ to.

And the more he thought about making these bastards pay, the more he realised he was using it as an excuse to avoid what was really important.

When this was all over, Mycroft's focus was going to be those _consequences._ John's, however, would have to be Sherlock.

John continued fidgeting, watching his mobile's screen. Still stubbornly dark. No updates from Mycroft, and no update from Greg.

Still... nothing.

_If this keeps going much longer..._

_God, Sherlock._

_Just give me one more chance._

_Please._

* * *

**June 21 2014**

* * *

The call came at half past midnight. Well after most of the city had gone to sleep, and even after John had given up the pretense at waiting down in the flat, the edge of his phone wearing a sore spot into his fist, and instead had taken to tossing and turning in bed. He must've slept, eventually, because the call was what woke him up, but John couldn't remember anything past hugging his pillow to the knot in his stomach and desperate for a reprieve.

Then the call came in.

"It's me, John"

_Mycroft._

Trepidation ached in his chest. He tried to reply, but his mouth was so dry it took three tries to get anything out at all.

"Sherlock. Is he- do you have-"

"Have you heard anything at all from my brother?"

John stopped short.

What?

Not bad news. That was the first thing. Oh, thank _god,_ it wasn't bad news. Not _you need to get to hospital, now._ Not _there's a car waiting outside. Get in._ And it definitely wasn't _you might want to sit down for this, John._

It wasn't _that_ phone call.

The problem was, he still didn't understand what sort of phone call this was.

He'd been expecting Mycroft to tell him that he'd found Sherlock. That it was _over._

Not call him asking for _John_ to have all the answers.

"I... no." Utterly lost, John sat back against his pillow, the trepidation flagged down just enough to let him breathe. The sheer confusion that replaced it was not all that much better. "Of course not, Mycroft. I haven't... do you think I would've just kept it from everyone if I _had?"_

Mycroft did not rise to the bait. There was nothing but silence, at the end of the line.

John's anxiety rose another notch.

"...Mycroft?"

He was wide awake, now squinting stubbornly in the dark. An uncomfortable feeling lodged itself firmly in his chest, to the point that even if Mycroft hung up right now, he knew he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep at all.

It wasn't the phone call he'd been dreading, but it certainly wasn't the one he'd been praying for, either.

"Please keep an eye out for me, then," the politician replied, finally Apparently in lieu of an actual answer. "I will be in touch, John."

 _"No,_ you bastard, don't you dare-"

Mycroft's side of the line went dead.

* * *

The answer, as it turned out, had to come from Greg, the next afternoon.

After a dozen calls to Mycroft went straight to voicemail, and Sherlock remained nowhere to be seen.

The situation between Mycroft and Greg, it seemed, was still up in the air. John didn't want to pry, Greg hadn't exactly seemed open for an interrogation, and Mycroft- hell would freeze over, before John ever tried to instigate that sort of conversation with _him._ All John had felt it was right to do was explain as much as the truth as he could to Greg. The truth of why Sherlock had lied, and the truth of why Sherlock had jumped.

The ashen look on Greg's face had confirmed it for him without further need for questioning. He hadn't known, either.

Sherlock hadn't told anyone at all the reason that he'd jumped to his death. He'd willfully turned a horrible self-sacrifice into a horrible joke.

John was still, in some ways, furious at him for it.

In the same way he imagined Greg was still furious at Mycroft, because, as far as he could tell, they had not spoken in any meaningful way at all since.

Sherlock was still missing. Greg was still busy, balancing running his division and running this investigation and looking more and more worn down by the day. Mycroft was still very busy, doing whatever the hell it was Mycroft did in a crisis, and if he was anything like Sherlock, he was using the case as an excuse to avoid sitting down and talking about this entirely. Emotions, connection, sentiment- surely something akin to torture, for the Holmes siblings. Sherlock had spent six months running from having this conversation with John; it wouldn't surprise him at all if his brother was going to keep running for at least a little bit longer, too.

As far as John was concerned?

Mycroft and Greg could do whatever the hell they wanted. Whatever they got up to, it wasn't his business.

John's focus had to be on Sherlock.

And it was apparent, when Greg showed up to 221B unannounced late that afternoon, dressed as if he'd come straight from work, looking as if he'd had even less sleep than John, and strangely reluctant to meet his eyes, that he wasn't the only one struggling.

"Jesus, you look terrible. Sit down, really, you look like you're about to fall over-"

Greg gave him little more than a tired smile of acquiescence, still avoiding his eyes. It was easy enough for John to draw his own deductions, but he put the effort into conversation, anyway. Anything was better than sitting here in silence. "Let me guess. His Highness woke you up last night, too?"

"Mmm. Three thirty." He covered his face with his hands, hair stuck up in an unruly pattern of spikes that he must've tugged a hand through a dozen times today. "I think I'm putting in for a vacation the moment this is all over."

John smiled weakly back, managing nothing more than a mumble of something vaguely in agreement. He did not reply.

As much as he wanted Sherlock back safe and sound, he knew now that that would only be half the battle.

"Did you get him to explain what's going on, then?" John asked, when he made a return with tea. "Because he hung up on me."

Clearly, Greg was here for a reason. But whatever it was, the inspector obviously didn't want to say, and that wasn't exactly doing wonders for John's sense of apprehension.

"What? Oh, no. Of course not." Greg grimaced, his mouth hidden behind steepled fingers. "You know how it is. You end up on the line with Anthea, who never answers your questions, and Mycroft won't give a straight answer when you finally get a hold of him, and before you know it you've been on hold with half the British government for hours. I did get a few details out of him, in the end, but I know he's still hiding something."

There was another uncomfortable pause. John, this time, kept his mouth shut, to let the answers come easier without his prodding.

In his experience, if a police officer was reluctant to say something, it probably wasn't good news.

"Mycroft says he's got agents tailing everyone responsible," Greg gave unhappily, after another few moments. "Four Russians that are still in the country. He won't give me more than that and I don't want to know, but he says that the moment he's clear to act, he will." Despite this, Greg's frown deepened, creasing with the lines around his tired eyes. "He also said that he believes the worst is over. They don't gain anything by lying to us at this juncture, or harming Sherlock in some way."

"They kidnapped Sherlock off the street and they've held him for four bloody _weeks._ Sorry if I'm not content to kick back and relax, and take their word for it that he's okay."

Greg grimaced again, and clearly not in disagreement. He was worried about Sherlock, too, and it showed.

At length, the inspector sat forward, tea cut settled aside for his hands to wind together in his lap. Finally meeting John's eyes, his own so wary and solemn that John's stomach sunk and clenched into a leaden ball. "Mycroft really didn't want to talk to me about this. But, I figure we've had enough of them keeping secrets, you know? If he doesn't want to tell you, then I will." He inhaled deeply, his mouth grim. "They should have released Sherlock by now. Mycroft told me it's been over twenty four hours since he'd confirmation that they had, and he said that he has every reason to believe them."

Then, he stopped. As if that was just the end of the premise. Sherlock should have been let go, the end, nothing else, those were the facts and that was the conclusion, period.

And it didn't make sense.

"...Then... what's going on?" John glanced uncertainly about, just unable to help himself. As if the answer might be hidden under the Union Jack pillow or Sherlock's laptop, still waiting on his desk for his return. "Where's Sherlock? If they let him go, then where is he?"

But Greg simply looked at him. As if the answer had already been said, all the clues given, and John just hadn't put it together yet, which- which was bloody _maddening,_ first of all, it reminded him of Sherlock, telling him to _make a deduction,_ but-

The pieces clicked.

Mycroft, calling him in the middle of the night. Wanting to know if he'd heard from Sherlock. Mycroft apparently doing the same to Greg, that same night. Mycroft, now dodging both their calls, no answers to give, and no Sherlock to be found.

_They should have released him by now._

"No," John said.

"It's only a theory-"

"It's not. It's not a theory at all! Sherlock-" John broke off and swallowed, his mind racing. Was _this_ why Mycroft had been dodging his calls? Because the only explanation he had was something this bad? "What, we're thinking they let Sherlock go, and he just... I don't know, decided to sleep it off in an alley? _What?_ " Another thought occurred to him, and worry abruptly closed off his throat like a stone. "What if he's hurt? I don't care what Mycroft says, he could've been hurt- they've had him for _weeks,_ Greg, what if they let him go but he's-"

"We've been checking on that. Well, I'm sure Mycroft has, too, but I already did that this morning." He looked away again, starting to dig into his satchel, searching for something or other. Or, more likely, probably, just needing the excuse to busy his hands and look away. "Nobody matching his description has turned up at any London hospitals or morgues in the past seven days. Mycroft also confirmed that he's watching the CCTV network, and Sherlock hasn't made an appearance there, either. Whatever's going on, it's not that."

John huffed to himself, one idea doused before it got off the ground. Or so Mycroft would have him believe, anyway, because he had no doubt these were Mycroft's words in Greg's mouth.

This was why Mycroft had called them. His _theory_ was clear as day.

He thought Sherlock was out there, and _choosing_ not to contact him. Contact _them._

Beyond that, he honestly didn't know, what Mycroft and Greg were thinking. It was preposterous on the surface and ludicrous if he tried looking deeper. What could even _be_ an explanation for this, if they were right? Sherlock had just off and decided to go on vacation after a month long ordeal and being kidnapped, and was just relaxing back in Sussex for the weekend without having bothered to let anyone know? Sherlock was just being Sherlock, and having the mother of all danger nights? Sherlock was pissed off they'd failed to find him in time, had decided it was fun watching them squirm, and was still laying low to do exactly that?

(Those were all in character for Sherlock. Those were all so terrifyingly, spot-on-the-nose, excruciatingly _Sherlock_ that John suddenly had to stop himself from calling his friend in Sussex to make sure he hadn't spotted a beanpole in a great coat.)

But merely thinking of the possibility went against every fiber of John's being.

A few weeks ago, those had been John's theories.

When John had been ready to think the absolute worst of his best friend, and when John had seething silently at home with broken glass and a sore fist, and all he'd been able to see was his own anger...

Those had been his most _charitable_ theories.

And now, Mycroft wanted him to believe that again?

Hell, no.

He'd just spent six months of his life believing the worst of Sherlock, and, big shock they'd ended up some of the worst months he'd ever had. He wasn't going to mess this up yet again.

The very least that he owed Sherlock was to believe in him now.

"No," he said again. And he meant it, damn it. He was never going to let Sherlock down like that again. "This is a _stupid_ idea, and you know it, Greg. Sherlock would tear us apart for not being able to think of anything less stupid than this! _W_ hy is our first assumption to blame him instead of, I don't know, the _people who bloody kidnapped him?"_ But Greg merely looked at him, wordless and reluctant, the way it felt like he'd been looking at John for weeks, and _damn it_ he was done with people treating him like a child. "What happened to you?! Weren't _you_ the one telling me off for thinking like this, just last week?!"

Greg did not answer right away, his gaze still down and reluctant. He finished fidgeting with his work satchel, pulling out an iPad to focus on that, instead. Old and ugly and scuffed, definitely property of NSY, and clearly now his reason for coming over here. The inspector seemed more than glad to have something to occupy his hands, now staring at the screen instead of anywhere in the room but John, swiping through something as he fished for words. "Mycroft's been in touch, like I said," he muttered, with another particularly vigorous swipe. "When they got in contact with him, to tell him they'd let Sherlock go, he finally had a new signal to try and trace back, and he didn't exactly waste any time. He's now got eyes on everyone that he thinks is responsible for this, and he was able to track down where he thinks they've been hiding out, this whole time."

Greg went quiet for several moments, his eyes clouded, thumb tapping an incessant, anxious pattern on the screen. He started to hand it over to him, then stopped, wetting his lips. "I want you to keep your head on about this, John," he said, looking up to hold his gaze. "We both probably have mixed feelings about Mycroft, at the moment, but the one thing he's not lying about is how important Sherlock's well-being is to him. If he promises Sherlock's going to get out of this okay, then I believe him."

If Greg hadn't then handed the blasted iPad over without further comment, John would've ripped it straight from his hands.

The device was waiting on a series of pictures. Of a crime scene, it looked like, emailed to Greg by His Highness himself, with yellow crime scene tape and an army of faceless suits, marching in and out of the shots with the definite look of Mycroft's minions. Nobody that he recognised, nobody from Scotland Yard, no Mycroft or Anthea, but that didn't matter. He'd been kidnapped more than enough times, by now, to always know a Mycroft minion when he saw them.

And the first thing, the _only_ thing, right then, that mattered, was that there was no body.

There was no _Sherlock,_ limp and dead on the floor. Sherlock wasn't there, and John's head spun, empty with dizzying relief, and his next breath caught short in a little burst of anguished, unadulterated _relief._ That was what he'd been most afraid of this entire time, and right here, in black and white, he had the pictures in his hands, and Sherlock wasn't there. He wasn't there. He was okay.

John was so agonizingly, dizzying relieved at what wasn't there, that it took him a moment to realise what _was_ there.

It was a small, grey, cold room. Enough space for a few of the minions to crowd in, but any more than the three that were already edged into the shot, and soon they'd be standing on each other's feet and fighting for room to breathe. John thought it was perhaps a forgotten, old storage room, of some kind. Lots of dripping pipes, lots of metal, nothing hospitable whatsoever.

It looked like the usual sort of grimy spot Sherlock usually wound up in, actually.

And indisputably gave off the feeling of a prison cell.

There was blood.

One of the pipes, one of the narrower ones which fed into the floor- John sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. Right there, just a few inches above where it met the floor, was blood. Drops splattered on the concrete floor, and smears upon smears crusted around the ugly metal of the pipe. Not enough to suggest any serious wounds, but instead looking as if as someone injured had been left there for a long time.

Dark, old, dried blood.

Oh, god.

"That's- that's-"

"It's okay," Greg said gently. But he sounded almost crushingly solemn; the sound grabbed John around the throat. "Mycroft said that was all. That there wasn't any other blood or-"

"I don't care what Mycroft said! He promised they weren't going to hurt Sherlock! He swore Sherlock would be okay; what the hell is this?! He's _hurt,_ Greg! That's what this is!"

"It's _okay,_ John, really. It's, Mycroft said this was all, it's-" he broke off and grimaced, his mouth a tight line of worry. "Well. His... exact words were that _it takes a lot of effort to hold a clever man captive."_

He might as well have punched John in the face.

It was nonsense. John had seen any number of people hurt so much worse than those few scattered smudges of old blood. He'd seen so much worse on _Sherlock._ It was nothing; bloody hell, it was a _good thing._ Sherlock had been missing for over four weeks, and all there was to show for it was what looked like little more than a bloody nose. It could have been so much worse.

And the panic crushing in on his chest still made it feel like Afghanistan all over again.

 _A lot of effort to hold a clever man_ captive, Mycroft had said.

He was right.

Shit. Shit. _Shit._

John had spent _way_ too much time being kidnapped with Sherlock. The man was a bloody slippery eel, worming his way out of every trap imaginable; to have been able to keep him locked up in that cold, bare room for a month- restrained, definitely. Likely to the point of being immobile. By the look of the blood, probably restrained right there, for days. Weeks. Kept isolated, in the only defense against Sherlock's silver tongue and deductive powers that there was.

 _This_ was where Sherlock had been. He'd been left in that place for weeks, bound, hurting, all alone. He'd been trapped there, and John hadn't been able to stop it, because the last thing John had said to him was...

_No._

_NO!_

"Is this where Sherlock's been? He's sure?" John swiped through the pictures again, trying to search them for any sign of his friend. "And he didn't tell us this _why?"_

"He didn't want to get our hopes up if Sherlock wasn't actually still there. As it turns out, probably a good idea." With another look towards the iPad, as if reluctant to leave it in John's hands, he leaned back, propping up his head on his fist. He looked exactly as exhausted as John felt. "He still won't tell me what's going on. But I think he's worried. ...so am I, to be quite honest."

Yeah.

And so was John.

Sherlock was supposed to be home now. He was supposed to be sitting here with John; he was supposed to be _fine._ That was what Mycroft had promised this whole time.

And now, here they were. Days after the point when Sherlock was supposed to have been let go, and all they had was this cold, isolated prison cell, splattered with black flakes of dried blood.

"What's going on, then?" he asked finally, jaw tight and a lump in his throat. He set the device down on his lap, swiping to one of the less horrible pictures just to try and get the image burned out of his mind. "Sherlock _was_ here, clearly... does Mycroft think they realised we were getting close and moved him? I thought this was supposed to be _over,_ now; why haven't they let him go?! Why did they hurt him?!"

He was going to kill them. He didn't care what level of an international incident it caused and he didn't care what Mycroft said to try and stop him. He didn't care what _Sherlock_ said to stop him. If he got Sherlock back and there was so much as a hair out of place, he was going to kill each and every one of them and damn the consequences.

_Sherlock-_

"I'm not sure what to think, John," the inspector sighed, and, carefully, took the iPad back. "And whatever Mycroft's theories are, he won't say." He frowned, averting his eyes from John. "He's being quiet about it all, still- but for whatever it's worth, he's maintaining that he doesn't believe they would seriously hurt Sherlock. Wherever he is, he... he should be okay, John."

Greg didn't even sound like he believed it, anymore.

John hadn't ever believed it in the first place.

Seriously hurt. The bloody _idiot,_ they wouldn't seriously hurt him, he said, when handing over pictures of a bloodstained room and no Sherlock. Mycroft was either an idiot o a hopeless optimist or both. Just because their goal hadn't been to hurt Sherlock didn't mean Sherlock was okay. Look at the blood in that room alone was enough for John to know he was hurt. If he really had been immobilized like that this whole time, it was more than just _hurt;_ he needed medical attention, now. He needed to get out of there, and somehow John needed to find a way to convince Sherlock to let him take a look at everything that was wrong- or Molly, if he didn't want John, and he shouldn't want John, not after what he'd said to him-

And none of that mattered, because they couldn't do any of that until they had Sherlock back safe and sound.

And all they had was this bloodstained room.

Greg had set the device back down on his knees, now, flipped over to hide the terrible pictures from view. John was grateful for it. Looking at the pictures wasn't doing him any good; he didn't know why Mycroft had even sent these to Greg in the first place... if anything, it only left him even more worried than before.

Mycroft didn't have an answer. Mycroft had been promising this whole time that Sherlock would be back home, by now, in one piece and safe and sound, and now all they had was a few emailed pictures of stains of blood. Mycroft had called _John,_ asking _John_ if he had seen or heard from Sherlock, because he was all out of answers and for once, he'd hoped John would have one, instead.

He didn't have any. Greg, slumped there with downcast eyes, shadowed with the same lack of sleep that John felt deep in his bones, didn't have any, either.

They didn't have any answers. Sherlock was still missing, and the only one who even had a scrap of an idea as to where he was, was Mycroft.

Who thought that Sherlock wasn't missing at all, anymore.

John fidgeted, discomforted. Suddenly, it was very, very hard to remain still.

He remembered back just a few weeks ago. When Greg and Anderson had started searching Sherlock's boltholes and underground contacts, and Greg had told John it was because Sherlock tended to _hide,_ when he was hurt. That it wouldn't have been the first time some criminal thug had gotten the better of him, and Sherlock, instead of calling Greg or his brother for help, or turning up at an A&E for treatment, had gone underground to look after his wounded pride and stitch himself back together. Something John had been surprised to hear, because he actually had very little experience with such a thing. Because the Sherlock he knew hadn't gone into hiding, when he'd been hurt. He'd come to him.

John's heart sank.

_Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true._

They really didn't have Sherlock anymore, did they?

Mycroft thought that they'd let Sherlock go, and Sherlock was in hiding.

Because John had made very, very clear that Sherlock was not welcome here anymore.

No. No, fucking hell, no. This wasn't happening. This wasn't- no. _Stop it, John! You don't have proof for this. No!_ What else had Sherlock told him, hmm? _It's a mistake to theorise without all the facts._ This was why Sherlock laughed at his attempts to deduce things, wasn't it, he took a minimum of evidence as a springboard to the stupidest of conclusions. Sherlock would come home. Of course he would! This was _Baker Street_ and it was _Sherlock._ As if Sherlock Holmes would let a few stupid comments by John be enough to drive him out of his home.

If for nothing else, Sherlock had to come home, so he could tell John how bloody _stupid_ he'd been.

_I called him a freak._

_He died for me, and I called him a freak._

John had never been so sorry for anything in his life.

God, what he'd give to have the detective sweep in through that door right now, and tell him what an unforgivable imbecile that he'd been...

The doorway stayed empty. Stubbornly, horribly empty, not even so much as a whisper of the detective's billowing coat. And Greg stayed sitting helplessly down in Sherlock's chair, and no matter how hard John wished otherwise, it was only just the two of them, and the silence covered the flat so thickly it felt like he was breathing in ash.

Sherlock wasn't here, and it wasn't because these bastards still had him.

It was because he didn't want to come home.

And for what had to be the dozenth time since Sherlock had gone missing, John hated himself.

* * *

Recovering opiate addicts tended to relapse at rates higher than 60%.

John didn't know why he'd googled it. That unhelpful, fear-mongering, alarmist number, staring at him there in black and white. He was a doctor. He _knew_ how misleading general statistics were. So many individual factors went into any one patient's recovery that merely sitting there, reading general, terrifying statistics on the internet, was nothing more than an utter waste of time. He would caution any patient of his against it, had been cautioned against it in medical school, would've snatched the laptop away from Sherlock if he'd caught his friend doing it himself.

Recovering opiate addicts tended to relapse at rates higher than 60%.

Even if that rate of relapse was over 99%, it didn't matter. It still wouldn't be relevant in any way, shape, or form, because Sherlock Holmes wasn't one in a hundred, he was one in a million. Sherlock Holmes had been defying statistics since the day he was born. Sherlock, if he'd been back there sitting in his chair, listening to all of this, would be bloody _insulted,_ to find out that John had looked up ordinary statistics for _ordinary_ people, and judged him with them.

After Sherlock had already coped so well on his own, the very last thing he deserved was John doubting him because of a statistic on google.

Recovering opiate addicts tended to relapse at rates higher than 60%.

Recovering opiate addicts tended to relapse at rates much higher than 60%, if confronted with extreme stress, physical pain, or lack of a support system.

Recovering opiate addicts who relapsed were at an especially high risk for a fatal overdose.

_No, no, no-_

_(Sherlock's a graduate chemist. Sherlock's a genius. Sherlock spent half his twenties on drugs, Sherlock's not an idiot, he wouldn't make that mistake, he wouldn't, please, god, no)_

Sherlock was a recovering opiate addict. Sherlock had just been kidnapped. Which, _fine,_ Sherlock had never seemed to give a single solitary fuck, about being kidnapped right off the street, because he was a reckless git who got kidnapped every other month, but John was allowed to be worried about his best friend. He was hurt. He didn't care _what_ Mycroft said; he'd seen the blood. Sherlock was hurt.

Sherlock was, by all indications, alone.

John paced, chewing at the quick of his thumb until the nail tore and bled. He told himself, over and over, that it was a mistake to theorise without all the facts, and more than once, wished dearly for a drink.

* * *

**June 28 2014**

* * *

It took just over a week's time, for whatever patience he'd had left break.

He couldn't take this, anymore. He just-

He couldn't.

Mrs. Hudson, bless her, took one look at him, and bustled him straight down to her kitchen for a cup of tea.

"You don't look well at all, John." She patted his shoulder firmly in a motherly way, still making breakfast. He wasn't sure why. He hadn't asked for it. He certainly wasn't hungry. "He really does need to stop worrying you like this, doesn't he? But you'll see- he'll be just fine, in the end. He always is."

 _No,_ John thought miserably. _He isn't._

That was a mistake he'd made, before. And it really was so _easy_ to make. Sherlock was very, very good at putting on an air of untouchable invulnerability, smart as a whip and a living threat, like a wild cat; mere hours after meeting him he'd watched him saunter away from a serial killer and tuck straight into dim sum. It was a facade Sherlock had absolutely embraced and played up as much as humanly possible. The very same facade, in fact, that he'd slathered on the night he'd come back from the dead.

He was so _brilliant_ and _superior_ he was immune to all but gunfire, and even then, there was a rumor or two at Scotland Yard that the bastard was bulletproof.

But he wasn't always _just fine,_ in the end.

John believing that, however subconsciously, was part of how they'd gotten into this mess in the first place.

"He might not... come here. Come back here, I mean. Sherlock." The words caught, bleeding in his throat. It was one of the hardest things he'd ever had to say it, but now there it was. Out in the open. He'd said it. He'd admitted it out loud and there was no taking it back. "Sherlock might not want to come back here."

"Oh, that's nonsense, dear. It's _Sherlock._ He always-"

"We fought. We argued and I said- things that I shouldn't have. ...I said some awful things to him, Mrs. Hudson."

This was his fault. This was all his fault.

And the worst part was, he couldn't do anything to fix it, because Sherlock wouldn't let him try.

_Please stay clean. Please just stay clean, you bloody mad idiot. If you're hiding out there until you're ready to come home that's fine, that's fine, it's all fine, but please just don't throw away all of your hard work for me. I'm an idiot. I'm such an idiot. Please come home._

If Sherlock relapsed, that was bad enough. But if he relapsed because of _him..._

Mrs. Hudson settled down across from him, her own cup of tea in her hands. For someone who was assuredly not their housekeeper, she'd certainly been going the lengths to keep 221B clean, these past several weeks. He'd caught a glimpse of her fridge this morning, and seen a plate of those blueberry muffins that Sherlock would never admit to liking, but never failed to take at least a few bites of, even when he was lost in his mind palace and Mrs. Hudson had to sneak one an open hand unawares and slip away before he'd ever realised anything was amiss.

Surely he'd come home for Mrs. Hudson. _Surely._ No matter what John had said to him, he wouldn't want to worry her, would he? Making John squirm was one thing, but not Mrs. Hudson.

Even though Sherlock still didn't seem to really understand people worried about him... that him being hurt or missing scared them, because they _cared about_ him, but he didn't get that, did he? He didn't get that they cared about him, because John might as well have shouted at him that they didn't, and now- and now...

"You know that Sherlock won't be kept away by an argument, dear," Mrs. Hudson told him, after a long, impregnable silence. "Really, you two used to bicker like cats and dogs, up here. It's how you know he likes you."

John grimaced.

He went for the tea at last, taking a sip on impulse alone, but it wasn't alcohol. He swallowed expecting the initial burn, but it wasn't there and the absence of it was enough to ground him back front and center. He hadn't had any alcohol since his conversation with Mycroft.

Given that his first instinct upon a difficult conversation was to drink, it was probably for the best that he'd already poured out every drop of alcohol in the flat.

"I used to think he didn't, you know. Not- not really. After he came back." He pressed the rim of the cup back to his mouth, like a shield. "I thought he'd hadn't cared at all... that he just wanted to spend a few years without ordinary, boring John Watson dragging him down."

"Now that's just _silly,_ John Watson _._ Sherlock is right; you really are an idiot. He-"

"Why did he leave, then? If we really mattered, to him, then why did he leave, and why did he not tell us he was alive?"

John knew the answer now, of course. He knew why Sherlock had left. The knowledge of it had hit him in the face every day since he'd found out the truth from Mycroft.

But how could he matter that much to Sherlock?

Ordinary, boring John Watson. The amazing Sherlock Holmes, and he'd died for _ordinary, boring John Watson._ And John had spent six months treating him like shit for it, and it had taken Sherlock the whole of those six months to finally turn his back, and walk out.

_Why?_

Mrs. Hudson's mouth thinned. She turned her focus down to her own plate, immeasurably sad, and for a moment John wanted to kick himself for never thinking to ask her before.

"I don't know why he left, the way he did," she replied carefully, her voice subdued. "But I do know that Sherlock never would've done any of that if he'd had a choice. And certainly not to you. You mean the world to him, John."

_I shouldn't._

It was undeniable, now. After six months spent denying it, Mycroft had given him no choice to accept it. Sherlock had died for him, for all of them. But what John still didn't understand was _why._ His life, and his happiness, had somehow been termed worth what Sherlock had gone through. Sherlock, brilliant Sherlock, brilliant, magnificent, amazing Sherlock, and _John_ meant the world to him. Why? _Why?_

He didn't know why. And he wasn't worth it.

His tea got refilled, Mrs. Hudson lingering just behind his shoulder. She said nothing at first, just seeing to his tea and then a wrinkle in his shirt, but somehow, John got the feeling she was disappointed in him.

"I think it's hard for you to get the right perspective on this," she said, upon being settled back down. "You didn't know him before, of course, so you can't see how different he is now. You don't know what Sherlock was like before he met you. It was a little frightening, how single-minded, how... _intense_ , he was. I don't know if lonely is the right word, but..." She gave him a fragile smile, of sorts, and patted his hand. "It's a little hard to see, because he's still so odd, of course, he's _Sherlock._ But he's happier now, John. He... wasn't a very happy person, before you met."

John snorted under his breath. No. No, he'd wager he hadn't been. Sherlock had been mental before they'd met, and just as mental two years later that day on Bart's rooftop. John certainly hadn't been _happy_ before they'd met, either.

_I don't have friends. I just have one._

He still didn't understand it. He didn't understand how ordinary old John Watson had been so important to Sherlock so as to make him _happy._

Sherlock hadn't been happy in months. That, too, was John's fault.

He didn't know why Sherlock had thought he was worth this.

He didn't know why, but that didn't change that Sherlock apparently thought that he _was._

Soon after Mrs. Hudson left, John made up his mind. He finished off the tea, warming his hands about the cup, and then, he started to make his way back upstairs in search for his laptop.

He had a final post to write.

* * *

Ten minutes later, he was back frantically on the phone with Greg, heart thudding a mile a minute, and the new absolute wreck of Sherlock's things, scattered all over the room from the force of Hurricane John that had just blown through.

Sherlock's laptop was missing.

And for the first time in a month, John had a lead.

* * *

Sherlock made it out onto the fire escape, scarf binding his injured hands, coat bundled and trailing around him like a blanket, and shepherded every step by an especially frantic Wiggins, with just fifteen seconds to spare.

 _"Where is he?!_ You tell me where he is- you tell me where he is _right_ _now!"_

Defeat settled back into the hollow of his chest, just like an old friend.

Sherlock crushed back into the corner as far away from the window as he could get, and buried his face in his knees.

John.

Correction:

 _Angry_ John.

John was _furious._

For god's sake, _why._

Sherlock immediately recalculated just how risky it would be to make a run for it. Straight down the fire escape, down into the back alley, and right into the nearest cab, with every last remaining cent in his wallet put forth into getting him as far away from here as he could get. In his current condition, he wouldn't be capable of defending himself, and- though, after the hell he must have put John through this past week alone, he certainly deserved it- Sherlock just... he was tired of being a punching bag. Of being _John's_ punching bag.

And Sherlock had become very, very familiar, with that tone of voice, from John.

John wanted to punch something.

He couldn't hear everything, the shouted words muffled by paper-thin walls, but doors slammed and people yelled. _John_ yelled, John was _mad,_ oh, he was absolutely _furious,_ and it was unforgivable but Sherlock flinched, cradling his hands in his lap. In that split second, he honestly wanted nothing more than to hide.

But more than that-

He was _tired_ of this.

He was tired of _being_ this.

"Where is he? Where the hell- _Sherlock? SHERLOCK!"_

"He's not here! I told you, I told you, he's not-"

"You lying piece of-"

_"John!"_

Lestrade. _Lestrade._ Sherlock squirmed back further, breaths quickening in his throat. John was one thing, but Lestrade, too- no, _no,_ this was unfortunate. John was already furious with him, and now he was going to piss off just about the only person on his side he had left. Why the _hell_ was Lestrade here. No, this wasn't how this was supposed to go-

Others, too, by the sound of the footsteps. A woman. ...Donovan?

Oh, hell.

Resignation settled next to the defeat in his chest, roots dug into his lungs and throat.

This was how it was going to end, then. Nowhere left to run, and nowhere left to hide. Curled up in borrowed pajamas on a grimy fire escape, unshaven and bleeding into his lap, and found, by all people, by _Sergeant Sally Donovan._

John was going to take one look, and that would be it. No more. There was a line for how much he would tolerate, he had made that _very_ clear, and this, surely, was it. He'd take one look, and be gone.

At this point, Sherlock agreed with him.

He'd passed his limit, too.

If this was how it ended, then this was how it ended.

"We traced Sherlock's laptop to this address. We know that it's here. And we _really_ recommend you tell us how it got here."

Lestrade, again. His voice a measured calm, but tense; he was holding himself back. Or, perhaps, holding _John_ back.

And by the sound of it, very uncomfortably close to the window.

Tumbling down the fire escape was looking more and more attractive an option, right about now.

"Is that what this is all about? The bloody laptop?! Here, take it, take it, I don't care- if _that's_ why you're here, then-"

"I don't care about the laptop. I want to know _why you have it."_

John.

Dangerous John.

"It's not- hey, now, really, it's nothing like that-" He was backing away, from the sound of it. Oh, clever Wiggins; trying to lead the group away from the window, as far away from Sherlock as he could get. If he hadn't already earned Sherlock's limitless gratitude for the past week alone, he'd well and earned it now. Trying to distract from the myriad of signs in the flat that would spell it out if any single one of the group was capable of the simplest of deductions: _Sherlock is here._ "I just needed to check something on it! Really, that's all!"

_"Really."_

"I swear! I gave him a few files, before, just for safekeeping, and now I needed them back, and- Sherlock wasn't there, so I just-... is that a _gun?_ Is that- hell-"

"John, what did I tell you, before I agreed to let you come?"

"This isn't about me! He's lying, Greg. He's obviously lying, Sherlock _was_ here, he had to have been- must've been recently, too; his laptop was at home only three days ago, I'm sure of it! It's not a coincidence!"

"Well, if he was here at all, he's not here now. You want to tell us what's going on here, Wiggins?"

"I told you, I don't know where Sherlock is! That's what I told you every time you can sniffing around, here, and it's not going to change!"

They'd been here before, then. Lestrade _and_ John. Wiggins had told him as such, but this was the first time Sherlock had seen it for himself.

The data was not as helpful as he had hoped it would be.

He understood Lestrade, to some degree, but why had John come looking for him? John had made it very clear that he no longer wanted to be involved. _Then,_ when Sherlock had therefore stopped trying to involve him- apparently decided to change his mind, and go as far out of his way as possible to drag himself back into it?

The resignation in his chest hardened into something bitter.

And, for the first time-

 _Sherlock_ was mad.

He gritted his teeth, scarf slipping from numb fingers as they clenched in his lap. What was John doing here? What right did he have, to think he could get involved now? He had spent _months_ trying so hard for this. Wanting nothing more than to figure out the last puzzle piece that he needed, in this jigsaw of Human Interaction; the last thing that would finally _be enough,_ and win John's forgiveness and friendship back. He'd spent months dedicated to the task, giving John space, hiding all the ugly and freakish pieces of himself from view, trying to _be nice_ and _behave_ the way John had always used to chide him to, and Sherlock was not accustomed to failure. Sherlock Holmes _did not_ fail.

But John had told him to stop. John had looked at him that night and said _freak._

Message received, then.

He'd stop.

He'd leave.

He'd leave, and he'd stay away. That was clearly what John wanted, and Sherlock wasn't going to waste his time, trying to change that any longer.

And now that he'd _finally_ accepted that-

 _Now_ John came storming back in, and wanted back in?

No.

_No._

Sherlock drew himself back up to his full height, as silent as he could on the rickety grating. His hands still throbbed and his heart still raced, but every last bit of trepidation and reluctance had hardened to ice cold fury.

He had no intention of revealing himself, still. There was no reason to do so, and still, Sherlock rather preferred to end this quietly, with perhaps a text sent Lestrade's direction and a head's up to Mycroft, a conversation with Mrs. Hudson. But if that was impossible- if this _was_ going to be how he was found-

He was not going to do it dirty and huddled up on his knees as a coward.

"What do you mean, _you can't do anything?"_

"I told you before we came here, John! We don't have a warrant, we don't have Mycroft's support, here- anything short of finding Sherlock sitting here on the floor, my hands are tied!"

"There's a bloody meth lab in the kitchen! Arrest him for that, arrest him for-"

"And when I'm asked just what I was doing here in the first place, what do you want me to say? That I broke in? That I had a civilian with me with an illegal bloody firearm? Because _that's_ what will help Sherlock, then?!"

"If it's-"

Sherlock glowered again. He drew closer, just as close as he dared, ear to the wall. They were more than thin enough, and the group was being more than loud enough, by this point, for him to hear every word.

"If anyone's interested in my opinion?"

Donovan.

"No," John snapped. His voice had gone low and dangerous, again; the calm before the storm. "No, actually. We're really not."

"This is a waste of time."

Instant silence.

Oh, Sherlock thought. He smirked silently to himself, the ache in his hands a steady throb, and warmed by an intense jolt of schadenfreude. _Oh,_ that was _a mistake._

Never would've thought the day would come where he'd be feeling sorry for Sally Donovan.

Whatever words were said next, they were too quiet for him to hear. Safely out here in his makeshift haven and now very glad for it. John had never exactly been Donovan's biggest fan, but now, _this_ John- hell, he was almost jealous. The look on his face right now had to be absolutely exquisite.

Hell, he could do with a cigarette.

This was really not going to end well.

"Because Sherlock Holmes is a selfish bastard that let the world think he was dead for two years, that's why. Do you realise how much police time has been wasted, on this case? We're here in a step above a drug den, looking for a crack addict that I'm not even convinced is missing to begin with!"

Sherlock grinned.

In a way that was probably a bit not good, but everything about this catastrophe had crossed that line about six bloody weeks ago, and considering he'd spent the last bit of it hiding in a _step above a drug den,_ as she'd said, he didn't really care.

So perhaps Donovan wasn't _quite_ as incompetent as he'd thought.

Or, he considered, perhaps John and Lestrade were both just too clouded by sentiment, to reach the conclusion that should've been staring them all in the face.

Her end conclusion was wrong, of course. He was not here to get high. It had been hell getting clean the last time around, alone and in agony in a Swedish hospital with meddling Mycroft for company, and no matter how much he craved it, there was some little pathetic worm of self-pride left in him that was not going to let one of Mycroft's plans gone wrong and _John Watson_ be enough to push him back down.

But with all the facts available to them, Donovan had actually made a rather spot on deduction.

Really, he didn't have any idea why Lestrade or John were arguing to begin with.

 _Lestrade_ had been the one to insist on a drug test, not all that long ago. And John- well, John had made his thoughts clear, on the matter.

The next words, however, were not the ones that he had expected to hear.

"Sherlock wouldn't do that to us. I know you hate him, I know you've never believed he was for real- but I did back then and I still do now. He wouldn't do this to us."

_...what's this, now?_

"He already has once before! He pretended to be dead for _two years!_ He did it bef-"

"You don't talk about that. You _don't get_ to talk about what he did."

John was defending him to Sally Donovan.

 _John_ was _defending him_ to Sally Donovan.

Quite simply-

What the hell?

Sherlock despised feeling stupid. But right here, right now, that was about the only word to adequately describe the vacant cluelessness that occupied his head.

Clearly, something had changed. Something must have had happened that he had not been privy to. Something that smelled a lot like _Mycroft._

God _damn it._

The confusion settled away, and with it, again, came something perilously similar to defeat.

He'd told Mycroft to stay out of this. The last thing that he'd ever wanted was his brother throwing his weight around, intimidating and threatening John to _play nice._ He couldn't imagine what Mycroft might've said, because the idea of him actually trying to intimidate John was just laughable, but there wasn't any other explanation. That was what had happened.

This was because of Mycroft. His interfering prat of a brother that had been of absolutely no use in actually disposing of the brutes that had left him handcuffed, brutalised, and losing his mind for four weeks straight- but god forbid he miss a single chance to gossip about him behind his back to John Watson. God forbid he miss the chance to threaten and intimidate and _interfere._

And this was never what he'd wanted.

"I'm sorry," Donovan said again. Sherlock wasn't exactly an expert, but even to him, she really didn't sound like it. "Dr. Watson. Inspector. And if it turns out that he really has been in trouble this whole time, then I'll be the first to apologise to him. Sincerely. But as things stand right now, if this were any other case, if he were anyone else, we wouldn't even be here. If you two want to keep on this wild goose chase, then I certainly can't stop you, but when you find the freak high as a kite in-"

Something crashed. An earsplitting, sudden, _dangerous_ crash.

And Donovan shut up.

A wall, to his ears. One of those paper thin walls had just been met with John's fist. He'd cracked it. He'd cracked the plaster.

_Most likely so he wouldn't punch her._

Sherlock, for the second time in as many minutes, was struck dumb.

It had been a very long time since John had gotten angry enough to hit anyone _for_ Sherlock.

"Sherlock Holmes," John said, "is not a waste of time. And if I _ever_ hear you call him a freak again, you won't have a badge left to abuse by the time I'm done with you."

The next sound that Sherlock heard was the decisive slamming of Wiggins' flat door.

And with that, it was over.

Wiggins came for him, soon after that. Just a long hand stuck out the window to grab him by the sleeve and haul him step by step in. His balance still precarious, hands still numb and shoulders crying out in pain, Wiggins caught him as he fell and Sherlock only barely made it in at all.

Wiggins, somewhat unsurprisingly, looked twice as shaken as Sherlock.

"Shezza?" he prodded. "Not that it hasn't been the _greatest joy_ having you here, really- all of this has just absolutely been my pleasure, but... do you think you could go back home now? ... _Please?"_

The flat, thank god, was now empty save for the two of them. His laptop had gone missing, surely taken back by John. The lab in the kitchen, just barely visible from here, looked to have sustained more than one broken beaker and spilled solution, and Sherlock had no doubt that John hadn't been the only one to accidentally-on-purpose slip.

And if Sherlock was right, then John would be back.

There were things that John couldn't do, with police officers in tow. Things that John tended to do when he was angry that Lestrade wouldn't allow. Things he had come close to already, threatening Donovan, carrying a firearm, but stopped just short. But Lestrade being there had stopped him.

Lestrade wouldn't be there, when John came back.

John knew that Wiggins knew _something,_ and whatever that was, John would be back to get it.

He still didn't fully understand the why.

But Sherlock did know that this now had to come to an end.

He could not continue like this any further.

Sherlock took a painfully deep breath, the strain of old cracked ribs and ubiquitous soreness flooded through him from the tips of his fingers to the bottoms of his feet. The Belstaff remained warm and constant, like a shield, and he ducked his head into it for a moment, breathing in the familiar scent and grounding himself.

"Come with me," he said. A little as if arming himself for battle, and a little more signing his own death warrant. "You're going to help me shave. Then... call me a cab."

Wiggins' face brightened so acutely that it was a hair's breadth away from insulting.

"Baker Street, then?"

Almost- _almost-_

But, no. Not yet.

Sherlock shook his head wistfully. No. This could not happen there. He needed somewhere neutral. He needed somewhere where he could do this and not still have to retreat if it went badly. He needed...

"Scotland Yard," he said.

* * *

**Blog of Dr. John H Watson**

I Believe in Sherlock Holmes- June 28 2014

Most of those reading this blog have probably read the book by the same name.

I think that I need to clarify exactly what that name meant.

On the surface, that book was a defense of Sherlock's work. Laying out all the evidence to support the hypothesis that he was a genius who solved every single one of those cases on his own merits, and refuting every null hypothesis everyone had ever made to me. Sherlock is a genius, of course, he's cracking mad and utterly brilliant at the same time, and part of the reason I wrote that book was absolutely to prove that fact.

That was never actually that important to me, though.

Sherlock Holmes is a genius. Anyone who's ever talked to him for more than thirty seconds knows it, or, if they try to deny it, is such a stubborn, bull-headed moron that they're not worth my time or his. Sherlock knows he's a genius, and never needed some silly book or blog I'd written to prove it to strangers he'd never even met. That wasn't his validation. Even when I thought he was dead, I knew that that never would have mattered to him.

I wrote it, not to prove that Sherlock was smart, but that Sherlock was _good._

That's not something you'll often hear people say about him. And I don't really blame them, because Sherlock is also the most inscrutable and infuriating person I've ever met. He's rude. He's arrogant. He makes our landlady cry, is a menace to the entirety of Scotland Yard, and appears to spend the majority of his time being an arse to anyone who happens to be in the room.

It took a long while of living with him, to realise that underneath all of that, was a genuinely good person.

I don't think that's something even Sherlock agrees with. The most amazing people tend to have the lowest self-esteem, in my experience, and Sherlock is no exception.

Luckily, I'm not asking his opinion.

That book wasn't: I believe that Sherlock was smart enough to solve all these cases on his own.

That book was: I believe that Sherlock is a good enough person that he would never have done these things that they're accusing him of.

Obviously, that panned out, in the end. I never once doubted it, either. No matter how angry I've been at Sherlock recently, and now that's been all been proven after all. I never doubted that he was for real- no matter what else I may've thought about him. However, I think that title needs a small addendum, now.

I still believe in Sherlock Holmes.

I believe that he would never purposefully do something to hurt me.

All of you reading this know bits and pieces about how he faked his death, two years ago. While I still can't go into detail about that at the moment, I believe that Sherlock did what he thought was the right thing- what he thought was best for me. We might not agree on what that was, but at the very least, Sherlock's intention was never to hurt me, and I believe that he might've acted differently, if he'd realised that he had. I believe everything that he did, he did so with me in mind, because that's the kind of person that Sherlock is.

Right now, I'm scared. We still don't know where Sherlock is, and we don't know if he's okay.

What's really worrying me, though, is that I don't know if he's out there, somewhere, gone underground, because he doesn't know that there are people wanting him to come home.

So, this is my public statement on that, I suppose.

I want you to come home, Sherlock.

If you're out there- if this is your choice- this is hurting me. And I believe that that matters to you.

We need to talk. Actually talk. That doesn't mean just you listening to me, that also means you saying words and me listening to you. I'm ready to do it if you are. But to do that, you need to come home. That's what I need from you now, Sherlock. That's it.

If you're reading this, and you're able to do so-

Come home.

* * *

_"John. John."_

_"What is-"_

_"We've got him."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said in the last update, I am now taking my laptop to the shop tomorrow. I'm going to try pleading my case, but, worst case scenario, they'll have to hold onto my laptop for a week, and I'll post the next chapter as soon as I can when I get it back (the boys /FINALLY TALK/!). Then, I'll get to work on the epilogue! I won't be able to write until I get my laptop back, but I will have my email, so I'll read any comments you all want to give me! See you next time! <3


	9. Back to Baker Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all the comments/kudos!!!
> 
> My laptop got fixed up two days early, and for much less than I was expecting! :tada: to celebrate- the meeting that we've all been waiting for!

After six weeks missing, more gut-checks, earth-shattering epiphanies, and sucker punches of guilt than John knew how to take, and a wait that had been hell on earth and imagining the worst with each passing day-

Sherlock was sitting in Greg's office.

That was it.

This was how it ended.

Sherlock was sitting in Greg’s office.

Jesus Christ, _YES!_

John just about keeled over in sheer, unadulterated relief.

Sherlock was done up in a hodgepodge of what seemed to be an old, ratty t-shirt and trousers, neither his size, and the expensive folds of his Belstaff and equally luxurious scarf. It was a get-up that did not match in any way, but somehow, peculiarly, fit Sherlock Holmes very, very well. His curls lay flat around his ears and skull, limp and greasy, likely after weeks without his expensive shampoo, framing a face that was bloodless and shadowed and pale, and his glacier eyes were hard. Carefully hunched over, as if to protect a vulnerable core.

There were no bruises on his face. Not that he could see. No bruises, no blood, no sign of head injury, and as tired and unwell as he looked-

Oh, thank _god,_ he was okay.

Staring wordlessly at John, as unwelcome and cold as a storm front.

Both his hands were propped up gingerly in his lap. Enveloped in a wrap of what looked to several flannels from the break room, in a way that did not disguise either the injury or Sherlock's pain.

Sherlock was sitting in Greg's office.

All in one piece, conscious, and- at very long last- absolutely, assuredly safe.

Because of course, if anyone would stroll into Scotland Yard and solve their own kidnapping, it would be Sherlock Holmes.

It took every single scrap of the crumbling self-control that John had left to not just hug the life out of Sherlock right then and there.

"Oh, god." The consultant shifted with an affronted huff, wriggling deeper back into his seat like it was his own personal nest, a safe haven in a maelstrom. His gaze slid straight away from John, like he was nothing more interesting than an inanimate object. "I _told you,_ Lestrade-"

"You told me not to call an ambulance. So, I called the next best thing."

"I also told you there was no need to call John."

"So I should've called an ambulance, then?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched angrily, his next retort swallowed in a huff. For all this talk of ambulances, though, the detective did not actually seem that badly injured, and Lestrade was clearly relieved to have the backup, and not at all for John's medical degree. Hell, Lestrade was smiling like all his Christmases had come at once, gift-wrapped in a billowing coat and with a bow of a knotted scarf.

Sherlock, meanwhile, remained surly, annoyed, and silent.

Once again, John had to remind himself that the last thing that would help this situation was a hug.

There was a startled sort of skittishness, in Sherlock’s cold eyes. One that was just a bit terrifying, because Sherlock Holmes and skittish were two words that did not belong anywhere within the same solar system of each other. A look that wasn’t welcoming in the slightest, because Sherlock was certainly _not_ pleased to see him.

Suddenly, it wasn’t all that hard, to stop himself from just giving the idiot a dammed hug.

So John cleared his throat instead, and got to work.

"Right." John walked briskly forward, settling himself down in front of Sherlock to give him no room to knock him away or hide. He pressed a hand straight away to his neck, and Sherlock twitched but did not twist away. That was probably the best he was going to be able to hope for. It was likely more than he deserved.

“It’s- good to see you again, Sherlock.”

 _"John,"_ Sherlock started, bristling backwards like an angry cat. If he’d had the ears, they would’ve been pointed straight up on his head. "I don't-"

“Sorry, shh. I’m sorry. No talking just yet."

"I am quite-"

_"Shh."_

Sherlock's eyes flashed hard, an angry glint of wounded animal, but his jaw went back to clenched shut. His gaze slid back away, glaring steadily at nothing, and his expression remained unreadable, but he didn't retort and he didn't slap John's hand down, and that was enough.

Something knocked loose in John's chest and softened. Like a knob of tension that had been turned tighter every day, and suddenly it had been turned back the other way all at once, flooding him with so much he almost couldn't stand it. Warm, instant, overpowering _relief,_ affection, heartache, joy, and John almost might've cried if Sherlock hadn't looked like he wanted to be anywhere at all but here.

Sherlock had told Lestrade not to call him.

Sherlock actively did not want him here.

Sherlock didn’t-

_No. No, damn it, John, not now._

_Sherlock doesn't need this from you now._

Pulse: steady and strong _(the best thing he had ever felt in his bloody life)._ A little too fast, for John's liking, and definitely above Sherlock's baseline, but that could've just as easily been due to nerves rather than injury. Nerves. Sherlock Holmes was anxious. Because of him. _Stop it, John._

"Good," he encouraged, and his hand relaxed against the side of Sherlock's neck. He couldn't let go. "Look at me, now, please."

His eyes were clear. His amazing, exotic eyes, they were clear too, oh, thank _god._ Pupils the same size, each tracking John's finger evenly, without jerkiness or sluggishness. No signs of intoxication. No signs of head injury. _Good man, Sherlock, yes, yes-_ ”Good," he said again, but now his voice came out thick, and he just didn't have it in him to fight it away. "Good. There’s a good man. Hold still for me, just a moment-" He passed his fingers through Sherlock's hair, combing downwards and around his ears and scalp, searching for any lumps or old blood, stroking the warmth of his skin, his perfect, wonderful, _alive_ skin.

John couldn't do anything to the Serbians, who'd hit Sherlock in the head. He didn't have to ask to know that Mycroft had _ended_ them.

So he'd just have to make do with these _bastards_ instead, if any single one of them had _dared_ to so much as touch Sherlock's precious skull.

But John's examination must have gone on too long, because suddenly Sherlock shuddered away from him, impatient and angry, and he smacked at John's hand when he tried to continue. "Will you _stop it._ I don't have a head injury, John!"

"Greg?"

"Excuse me, I _just said-"_

"Sherlock has maintained he doesn't need any emergency medical attention," Greg offered, warmth playing on his voice. "For what it's worth, it seems to be true."

"As I _said,"_ Sherlock huffed, squirming backwards again. He looked like he wanted a hole in the floor to open up and swallow him up. Or John. ”If you don't mind stopping this nonsense, then? I am _fine._ If I need your help, then I will be sure to ask for it!”

He was doing quite a good job at sounding pompously offended. His head held high and jaw an achingly tight line of annoyance, eyes a glimmer of seething rage.

But John knew Sherlock. And John could see underneath it.

Sherlock wasn't okay.

Sherlock wasn't okay with John this close to him. He wasn't comfortable with John touching him. He was hurt, yes, and he was in pain, but it wasn't the pain that was bothering him.

He wasn't okay with being touched. He wasn't okay with all the attention in the room on him, which made for an unsettling first because Sherlock had used to have been made for the spotlight and hogged it like a diva. He wasn't okay with being- cared for.

He wasn't okay.

And he hadn't been for a long time.

John took a deep breath, and eased his hands back from Sherlock's face.

"I'm sorry," he said earnestly. He was. He was so, so _sorry._ "I'll keep it brief. But I need to make sure that you're right that you don't need an ambulance. Okay? It's not a full exam, it's just to make sure that there's nothing here that can't wait. ...Sherlock?"

The detective blinked wordlessly once.

He looked... taken aback, John thought.

Taken aback. That John had noticed his distress, and more than that, actually slowed down, to stop and address it. That he had actually noticed something was wrong, and that had been enough to get him to slow down. Sherlock had clearly fully expected him to just continue doing whatever he'd wanted, and the fact that Sherlock wanted him to stop was so irrelevant the man hadn't even bothered voicing it at all.

John's throat constricted painfully.

In that moment, he couldn't decide who he hated more: himself, for his past treatment of Sherlock, or the physicians Mycroft had undoubtedly sent him to after Serbia.

"Do as you like," Sherlock sniffed, after a beat of silence that lasted just a moment too long. "I can assure you I am not about to expire as we sit here and discuss trivialities. But if it will make you feel better, then I suppose I have no reason to stop you."

It wasn't exactly a yes. It certainly wasn't close enough to put John's worries at ease.

But right now, Sherlock's health took immediate priority. Everything else was simply going to have to wait.

He went for Sherlock's still wrapped, obscured hands.

A breath later, John saw red.

His thin wrists were both lacerated deeply, red and raw and angry in the undeniable mark of long-term restraints. Sherlock's hands had been bound for days if not weeks at a time, tightly enough to seriously restrict the circulation. John knew the instant that he looked at them that they needed medical care beyond his kit back at home.

Mycroft had been right. Mycroft had been absolutely _right,_ he seethed, and if Mycroft had not already eliminated the ones responsible for this, then he and John were going to have _words._

How dare they. How _dare_ these people have done this to Sherlock. How could they have just- _left him_ like this until his hands were numb and bleeding, trapped for weeks, all just to force Mycroft’s hand in a game of bloody politics?

John had shot the cabbie in defense of another person, but this. If Mycroft hadn’t taken care of this himself, _this_ would be revenge.

He touched Sherlock's hands gently. His skilled, graceful hands. He flexed limp fingers, feeling for any resistance, listening for any intake of breath or wince that would betray pain. There was none, but that meant very little. Sherlock's pain tolerance was terrifying, but even that aside, by the look in his eyes right now? He would sooner die than let them see that he was in pain.

"Can you feel this?" John asked, squeezing his fingertips. "Does this-"

"Of course it hurts! It would be of serious concern if it _didn't,_ John!" he snapped, so suddenly that John jumped. "But, as I can confirm that the blood flow to my hands is not so heavily restricted that cell death is a concern, I would appreciate it if you kept your hands to yourself!"

 _"Sherlock,"_ he started, familiar exasperation already starting to build. Not _again;_ they didn't have time for Sherlock to dodge and obfuscate and blow off medical care this time-

But this time, John caught the rise of irritation before it got off the ground.

This wasn't a full exam. He'd promised he wouldn't put Sherlock through that now. And whether Sherlock had believed him or not, he'd meant it. Sherlock clearly did not want to be looked at by him, right now, and that was something he couldn't just ignore.

John had already made up his mind, that he was going to do better. He was going to listen to Sherlock, even to the things he couldn't outright say. He was going to pay attention, and realise if something he was doing, anything at all, was making Sherlock feel worse. How Sherlock felt _mattered._

And right now, Sherlock was saying, clear as day, _no._

John hesitated again.

His hands were both warm. The skin was a healthy pink. While Sherlock was keeping silent about the extent that he could move and feel them, John could tell there was at least some sensation and range of motion, in both the first three digits and the last two. As Sherlock had said, that meant the blood flow and nerves were not so restricted that it was an emergency.

Whatever medical attention Sherlock needed, he did not need it, _right now._

That had to be all that mattered.

But, if Sherlock's hands were this bad, then John had to see more before he called it a day. He was willing to give Sherlock all the ground he could, here, but he could not let him stay covered up and risk missing something urgent. "Hang on," he murmured, going for Sherlock's long sleeves."Just need to check-"

"No! No, you do _not!"_ Sherlock sat back with an angry snort, his hands jerked free of John's so hard the detective stiffened in pain, but even that did not mollify the sudden surge of indignation in his eyes. "I'm clean, John. I'm clean now and I was clean before. And if this is going to turn into you checking under my tongue and between my toes, then I'll just take the ambulance after all," he hissed. "If I'm required to sit through the exam, then I might as well only sit through the exam once."

The look on Sherlock's face, angry and defensive and hurt,made John feel more awful than he'd ever felt in his life.

He'd fucked this up. He'd fucked this up so _bad._

John sat silently for several moments, his heart in his throat and suddenly very painfully aware that Greg was in the room. While Greg knew about Sherlock’s drug history- likely more than John- Greg did not know about Serbia, and John wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. Not if he wanted to have Sherlock's trust ever again. But that meant there just was so little that he could say, like this; not with Greg listening in, not with Sherlock clearly on edge with a bruised pride and his defenses raised up one by one. He couldn't say _I know you're clean. I wasn't saying you weren't. I'm so sorry I ever insinuated otherwise. I know you're clean. Why didn't you tell me? I would've listened. I'm sorry. I know how hard you must've worked to stay clean and I'm proud of you. I'm sorry._

There was so much that he needed to apologise for.

And the look on Sherlock's face said it, plain as day-

Not now.

John couldn't do this now, because Sherlock couldn't do this now, either.

Sherlock needed to get out of here.

Everything else was just going to have to wait.

"...I know," he said finally. His voice came out low and sufficiently wrecked, and he met Sherlock's hard eyes, trying to get the sentiment across with that alone. Finger by finger, as gently as he could, he left Sherlock's arms alone. "I know you're clean. I wasn't saying that you weren't."

Nobody was going to put that look back in Sherlock's eyes again. John would make sure of it.

"He doesn't need an ambulance," he announced, louder again, only after Sherlock's gaze had finally started to soften. Now he addressed Greg as well, but left a hand hovering just over Sherlock's. "Hospital, yes, but there's nothing urgent. We can take our time. Unless you'd prefer an ambulance, Sherlock?"

Sherlock treated the room at large then with such an insulted look that John didn't ned any more answer than that.

Greg laughed as well, evidently in agreement. Taking that and Sherlock's affronted look at face value, John stood up, giving Sherlock another encouraging grin and forcing his hands back to himself. "I'd say we're about done here, then?"

"I'm giving my statement. I can't leave until I've finished."

"Greg?"

"We're done here," Greg agreed, without even the slightest hint of hesitation. Sherlock looked like he'd just been smacked across the face. "If you really want to continue this, I'll come see you tomorrow. But your doctor says no more of this tonight, and I'm in his camp." He started to reach for his phone, gaze lingering on John now, his smile already fading in quiet concern. "I assume you're taking him to hospital, then...?"

Sherlock huffed in his seat, narrowed eyes shifting away as he dug his hands back into the damp flannel, above it all with the most lofty air on earth. He didn't protest out loud, again, still coming across as nothing more than surly and annoyed. Outwardly, he seemed simply resigned to his fate, and content to do nothing more than pout about it like an overgrown child.

But there was something upset in his eyes again that gave John pause.

It was that look, again.

The look that said _I don't want this._

John had spent a long while ignoring that look. Ignoring every single sign screaming at him with neon blinking lights that said _Sherlock's not okay. Do something about it, John. Sherlock's not okay._

He hadn't wanted to see it, so he hadn't.

He had to pay attention to it now.

Because he wasn't going to get another chance.

"No. Not just yet."

Sherlock's startled eyes flickered, in just an instant of disbelief.

John would've taken him by the shoulders, then, driving his point home the best way he knew how. But the way Sherlock kept fidgeting alone told him his shoulders were likely in the same state of his hands, or worse. And the last thing he was wanted to do was hurt Sherlock.

That in mind, John found himself simply dropping back down to crouch in front of his best friend, and holding his gaze no matter how much Sherlock clearly wanted to look away. "This late, nothing would even get done. They'd just get you admitted for the night and schedule a lot of tests for tomorrow. The former isn't necessary, and the latter, I think I can get done from home. If you agree to let me take a look at you back at Baker Street. If you- no, Sherlock, look at me-" He caught his cheek as Sherlock tried to turn away, turning his face back to meet his gaze to leave no room at all for argument. "If you agree to work with me tonight and go in tomorrow morning. Otherwise, we're taking a cab straight there now. Okay?"

Sherlock stared back at him in what could only be silent disbelief.

It wasn't until he saw that look, wide-eyed and guarded all at once, so very _Sherlock,_ in every single way, tired eyes and hair limp and face shadowed with pain and exhaustion but something so vibrantly alive in there that it could only be Sherlock Holmes, that it all came up to hit him.

It was over.

Sherlock had made it back to him. It was undeniable, now; Sherlock had spent the last week in hiding, lying to them all again, leaving John to get more and more worried, and that _was not_ okay, and that was one of the many things that they were going to have to talk about later, but the fact of the matter was, it wasn't important now.

John had gotten his second miracle after all.

He was not going to waste this one.

"...We're going back to Baker Street?" Sherlock said back. His voice was carefully dispassionate, as if it didn't matter at all, but the warm glimmer of honest relief in his eyes said differently. The man's face really was as expressive as an open book. "Now?"

John beamed back.

And then-

Damn it all, he had _missed_ Sherlock. He had missed him this past week, he'd missed him ever since he'd walked out, he'd missed him ever since he'd come back, he'd missed him since he'd died. He'd spent all this time missing his best friend so badly that he'd never even stopped to realise that he'd _gotten him back_. Sod it, sod his shoulders, sod all of it; John wrapped his arm around Sherlock and pulled him into the most careful hug of his life, and when he felt the wince and stiffening and sharp inhale of shock he just adjusted his arms and held him even tighter.

"Yes" he swore. "We're going home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have some alone time next chapter to actually talk, which is sorely needed, at this point. Progress on that one is looking very good, so that one will be up sooner rather than later, I think. Until then!
> 
> Feedback is always welcome and appreciated <3


	10. Unforgivable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at last- the end of the road!
> 
> I did my best to try and not do a cop-out (like in canon cough cough) and make both Sherlock and John address the ways they've both messed up, and why things will be different between them in the future. In reality, though, it probably would be messier than this, and any friendship that had actually devolved as far as theirs had would need a lot more work than a well-timed kidnapping and chat to repair things. But this is, at least, a start!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's read along the way, and I sincerely hope you enjoy!!!

Something very fundamental had changed.

That was the only explanation there could possibly be.

John sat across the room, his mobile pressed between shoulder and cheek, and a cup of forgotten tea rapidly cooling by his side in the set-up he had claimed since walking into Baker Street. Papers were strewn about around him in a mess, and he scribbled in his lap with every exchange, muttering to himself on and off, brow furrowing, shaking his head. He’d been on the phone for the past ten minutes, at least, arranging details, scheduling tests, and smoothing over potential hiccups, all in preparation for Sherlock’s promised hospitalization the following morning.

He’d given up ghost, on that fight. He needed it. He knew he needed it. Hell- he almost thought he even _wanted it,_ at this point.

There was something intensely liberating about the idea of being able not having to worry, anymore. As stupid as the medical establishment was, he knew the doctors John was arranging had to be at least passably competent, and... Sherlock would be lying, if he said he wouldn't be just a little be relieved to finally let someone else take over.

He was just... tired.

Very, very tired.

“...no, _not_ Stevens. I want Wilson. I know Stevens is head of the department, but I’ve met him, and I want Wilson. Yes. Okay. Thank you.” He scribbled something down again, brow furrowed, then rolled his shoulder, sliding his phone closer to his ear. “No, no, don’t schedule a surgeon. A private one will be handling this case- yes, I’m sure...”

Sherlock watched in silent, building suspicion.

John had been on the phone almost upon stepping through the door. He’d only dallied just to put the tea on, fussing about and making himself busy as if his life depended on it. A cup had been delivered to Sherlock, straw and all, while his hands had been promptly wrapped in towels and two bags of frozen peas from Mrs. Hudson’s freezer in John's well-practiced movements. Sherlock had been left on the couch, cushioned inside a nest of nearly all the pillows and blankets in the flat, with the strict reminder that John would be back to take the ice packs off in exactly fifteen minutes, and that he wasn't to try moving or lifting anything heavier than his tea until then

And since then, John had been on the phone with the hospital, while Sherlock had been left alone.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected, when he had finally conceded defeat, and given the cabbie the address for Scotland Yard.

But it certainly had not been _this._

John cleared his throat loudly after yet another long stretch of silence, pen clicked and shoulders held straight and steady. He exchanged a quick goodbye and shuffled his papers about, mobile slid down to the desk with a faint _click,_ and immediately turned his gaze to his watch. It had been fourteen minutes since the ice packs had been applied, which Sherlock could’ve told him, if he’d asked, but Sherlock doubted John's insistent focus on keeping his gaze on anywhere but him really had to do with the time.

“They’re expecting us at nine AM tomorrow," he said gruffly, voice almost business-like. "Depending on how quickly they manage to get you in, you might be able to come home tomorrow night, or they might admit you." He skimmed over the rest of the notes he had made with an ever deepening frown; still, failing to so much as look at him. "Nothing invasive that requires sedation, so if you really do want to keep giving your statement tomorrow, then you can. They won't be looking at you twenty four seven. You really don't have to, though." John crossed the room to join him, at last offering up a grim sort of smile. "Mycroft's already dealt with all four of the people who did this to you, so, there's not-"

"Five."

"What?"

"There were five. I only had direct contact with four, but there was a fifth."

John stared so blankly, it was as if he had just sprouted a second head.

And Sherlock... oh, he had- just a _little-_ missed that baffled, dazzling look. He had missed John thinking he was _clever._

Ridiculous.

"Honestly, John," he murmured. Would have gestured, if he could've gotten away with it. "I'm better at this than Mycroft even while stuffed into the boot of a car. Of course he didn't find everyone on his own; if he didn't need my help, why is he constantly coming by with problems for me to solve?" Interfering ponce. Nosy, useless big brothers. What _use_ was having the British Government Itself for a relative if it couldn't even solve a simple kidnapping?

John, meanwhile, was still staring. Openly and, really, rather stupidly.

Sherlock darted his gaze downwards, avoiding his eyes just for the sake of it. Something about that look just made him feel- _wrong._ He flexed his fingers in his lap instead, feeling the peculiar tingle of numbness, watching the fifth digit on his left hand shake. Interesting, _interesting._ What a _tragedy_ it was that he could not properly experiment.

John was still staring.

"They tried to limit my contact with them," he went on dully, when it had become inescapable. Imbeciles. _Idiots!_ They were all such vacant, brainless idiots; it was _infuriating!_ "Likely due to my reputation, but these efforts were defeated by the fact that the one I _did_ have contact with spent most of his free time snogging the fifth actor. I know this individual was involved, and not simply an off-site partner, because I could smell her perfume when they moved me the last time. They made sure I couldn't see or hear, but somehow seemed to forget that every functioning human being has a sense of smell. _Idiots."_ He rolled his eyes, snatching a passing glance at the look on John's face and nothing more. "Very expensive, unique- only purchasable at a few locations, each surely with surveillance footage. Give me twenty minutes with Mycroft's resources, and I'll have a picture of her for you." His mouth quirked, slipping into a triumphant little smirk despite himself. "Sentiment truly is a defect in the losing side."

John was... still staring.

Hadn't stopped, as a matter of fact.

"...Well," Sherlock coughed, clearing his throat. "As you can see, then. I will need to get in contact with Mycroft or Lestrade, and certainly sooner rather than-"

"Fantastic."

It was Sherlock's turn to stare.

John looked at him like it was four years ago, a shared taxi and a deduction delivered to show off and shock, but he'd _smiled_ and said _fantastic_ instead of _shut up_. John looked at him in a way he hadn't seen since he'd jumped off a rooftop, and it was so sudden and jarring and out of place that the words to blow it off withered and died in his throat and left his mouth full of silence.

"...Hardly," Sherlock returned, after several moments of just- just _staring._ He wished John would stop. "There was blonde hair all over his shoulders every time I saw him, and once even lipstick on his collar. It was hardly an impressive deductive leap."

But to that, John's smile fell, and the look on his face was as if he'd been doused in ice water. Ah, he knew that look. He'd said something Not Good, again.

Sherlock didn't really care.

At this point, his entire existence was a Bit Not Good, and he was bloody tired of striving to change it. If John wanted to complain about whatever he'd said or done wrong now, then he just didn't have the energy to do anything but tune him out.

But John did not start to berate or chastise right away; in fact, he did nothing at all beyond just sit there and watch him, silent and sad. _Sad._ Sad was probably better than angry, but Sherlock found himself preferring the latter. He huffed to himself, dragging a carefully icepacked hand to wrap around the nearby cup of tea, and reverted to simply glowering at his reflection.

_Just get on with it, would you._

_I'm tired._

_I'm done._

John cleared his throat after several moments, willing that pained sadness back with what seemed to be a palpable effort. "Right," he muttered, with a business-like grimace. "Well, um. It's a bit late as it is, and I'm sure Mycroft will make an appearance tomorrow no matter what we do- I'll just go ahead and shoot Lestrade a text and ask him to come, too, shall I? I figure you're right, and this is something we need to take care of sooner rather than later." He hesitated, worrying at his bottom lip. "It'll have to be tomorrow, anyway. I imagine they'll be scheduling your first surgery for the day after. Giving your statement will be a bit difficult, then."

He said the last bit with a smile. Like it was a joke, and he was trying to be lighthearted; trying to get Sherlock to laugh. Sherlock was not in a laughing mood.

“The first?”

“Yes,” said John. “I’m sorry. We’ll be able to tell you more tomorrow, after we’ve had a proper look at you, but you’ll need more than one. I’d say at least two, for now, and depending on how well you heal on your own, potentially more after that. Both of your shoulders and your hands need extensive treatment.” He stopped for a moment, his gaze lingering on Sherlock’s hands. A shadow passed over his face. He was angry, again. Angry. For god's sake, what had Sherlock done now-? “Next midnight violin concert might take you a bit of recovery time, I think, but we’ll get you sorted, Sherlock. Trust me.”

“I don’t appreciate sugarcoating, John.”

John stopped short. His hands were now just inches from Sherlock’s own, one makeshift ice pack already in his grip. His wrist was gloriously numb, at the removal of the cold temperature, a surge of warmth spreading through the length of his arm. The bliss wouldn't last.

“I know that nerve damage is-“

“No.”

“John-“

“ _No.”_ John let his hands go to crouch in front of him, his hard eyes meeting his with a stern, no-nonsense glare. “I’m sure you know a lot of things, but this, right here? This is one thing that I know better than you do. So I’m telling you that being a pessimist about this, and reading scary testimonials on google, and convincing yourself that you’ll never play violin again, are all things you need to stop doing right now.” He splayed his fingers over Sherlock’s, one by one, at first a doctor testing for sensation, but then just left them there. Each finger to Sherlock's own, and the look in his eyes so intense his throat dried into a desert. A pins and needles sensation electrified with each touch, uncomfortable but not painful, and John squeezed his fingertips again. “It may take a while. And it probably won’t be perfect, no. But if you see the treatment through, and listen to your doctors and do what they tell you to do, you will feel the improvements yourself. It will be worth it. _This-“_ He tapped the palm of his hand again with a knowing smile, as if he knew that Sherlock hadn’t felt the touch as anything but a numb tingle. “-will get better.”

Then, without room for Sherlock to retort, he silently collected the ice packs, and stood back up to return them to their own freezer.

Once again, leaving Sherlock without any idea what he was supposed to think.

This was not the same John that he had left drinking in 221B, five weeks ago.

None of this was how he had left it.

He didn’t like change- nobody did, he figured- but he absolutely, thoroughly, in every way, _loathed_ unexplainable ones.

“I’ll get you some more ice in another fifteen minutes,” John called, his back still turned, rummaging about in the freezer. “You can’t sleep with it tonight, but we can go on and off, until then.” But instead of returning back to face him, he continued on with his absentminded fidgeting, ill at ease to the point that Sherlock almost felt bad for him. Just standing there, futzing about in the freezer with absolutely no purpose.

It was abundantly clear that he just didn’t want to turn back around to face him.

He didn’t want This conversation.

 _You may’ve been able to threaten him into staying at Baker Street, Mycroft,_ Sherlock fumed, _but even you can’t force him back to the way things used to be._

That status quo had broken on the pavement along with a gallon of his fake blood, and John had made perfectly clear that he wasn't getting it back. He just appreciated that John had given up pretending otherwise.

“Do you want opiate pain management, Sherlock?”

Revulsion stabbed through him with all the violence and careening destruction of a bullet. He would know. He'd been shot twice in his two years away.

Oh, what was _this,_ now? Had he not already passed this test, back at Scotland Yard? How was it any of John’s concern, whether he did or did not?! “The question is moot,” he snarled, gaze snapped back to his hands. “As I’m fairly sure the option won’t be offered to someone with my history. So-“

“It will be offered if your GP asks for you. Which I will do. If you... would like me to.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes right back. That revulsion continued to curl his tongue, his blood chilled to ice. He wanted to snap something in half.

It didn’t _look_ like a test, surely. John did appear sincere in every way, and John was an absolutely terrible liar. He had four different tells in rapid, promised succession, whenever he tried to lie, and none were present now. This had every _appearance_ of an actually genuine offer.

Which made _absolutely no sense,_ since, not even a full hour ago, John had been about to push his sleeves back in the middle of Lestrade’s office to look for bloody track marks.

Why?

At what point would he have jumped through enough hoops? At what point would John stop looking askance at his arms; at what point would Mycroft stop hovering at his elbow with shiny rehab pamphlets and threats about sectioning? Mycroft had _watched_ heroin be force-fed into his veins against his will every inch of the way, and _still_ it was not enough for them to believe he _didn't want to do this?!_

He should've gone straight to hospital after all.

He should never have come here.

John must’ve took his continued silence for reluctance- he hadn't said anything for too long again, stupid, idiotic Sherlock, _stupid-_ because John's expression suddenly softened, forming into something earnest that he had never seen from him before. “You’ll have a pain management team that will work with you. Not me, but with specialists who have experience with opiate dependency. If you're worried about a relapse, then-"

“I already have extensive experience with what the medical establishment calls a pain management team, John, and I have no interest in enduring it again. I also _, believe it or not,_ loathe opiates, and am far from eager to try them out again.”

He’d just spent the week being offered heroin at a glorious discount by an actual drug dealer. He could not _stand_ heroin. He’d used it rarely enough, when he was younger; an occasional cushion for the cocaine crash, but never more than that, and after his last, dreadful, involuntary experience with it, he was never going to use it again. The empty, stupid bliss that came with heroin was now irrecoverably associated with all the unpleasantness that was Serbia, and even he was not self-destructive enough to willingly touch that with a ten foot pole. Contrary to apparently this most widespread of popular beliefs.

After all the endless irritated little side-glances and complaints John had given him for so much as a damn cigarette, he really didn’t know why he was now trying to push needles on him instead. But the answer was no. A bewildered no. But _no._

“...Okay,” John said at last. “That’s, uh- fine. Of course. It’s fine, it’s all fine. I just... wanted you to know it was an option.”

He went back to picking at his fingers, then. Staring at his lap. Scratching at the back of his neck; his hair. Doing just about anything he could to avoid looking Sherlock in the eyes, his jaw tight and eyes clouded.

He was sober, at least. Hadn’t had anything to drink in... at least a week. Perhaps two. Which had improved his overall temperament and mood, from surly and consistently irritated to, apparently, skittish and unsettled.

It wasn’t the same John that he’d left here five weeks ago, but it was most assuredly _not_ the John that he wanted back.

In short-

He was going to kill Mycroft.

“My brother will be by sometime tomorrow, I expect.” Sherlock nudged at his tea, frowning. Lifting it hurt. “Or his agents will."

"Oh? Uh- uh, yeah. I'm sure. They've been poking around ever since-"

"My things will have been moved out before I’m released from hospital.”

His gaze still down on his tea, Sherlock only just glimpsed John coming to a halt, our of the corner of his eye. The suddenly crestfallen look on his face was little more than a momentary flicker.

Sherlock focused on not splashing himself with tea.

“I. Um. That-“ John coughed again, a pathetic, stuttering attempt to clear his throat. His voice remained a sudden shadow of its former self. “If... that’s really what you want.”

It wasn’t a capitulation. There was more to the end of that sentence; even Sherlock could hear it. John was going to plead his case and bargain and ask _why,_ likely just as soon as he’d managed to recover from the shock of it. When he found the right words, the perfect ones that were meant to make him to stay.

Sherlock glared at his own reflection in the cup of tea. The cup of tea that was only half-full, with a straw that he didn’t want but undeniably needed, with two spoonfuls of sugar. John didn’t take sugar in his tea. John had bought sugar, recently, for him.

He hated it.

“I know Mycroft that told you everything.”

John didn’t move, and didn’t speak. Sherlock suddenly couldn’t bring himself to lift his gaze to see the look on his face.

“Before all of this, you made clear you no longer wished to be associated with me. Now-“

“Now, hang on-“

“ _Now,”_ Sherlock forged on, “you are- setting up doctor’s appointments. Picking me up from the Yard. Making me- _tea._ ” He jostled said cup again, watching the liquid slosh from side to side. John had not made _tea_ for him in nine weeks. “There are only two explanations for such a drastic shift in behavior. Either you feel guilty that we argued, and blame yourself for my abduction- which is a throughly imbecilic reason to feel guilty, even for you- or Mycroft took it upon himself to interfere. Against my explicit instructions, but I’m not sure he’s ever listened to me once in his life, so I’m not sure why I expected him to now.”

John winced a little, just a silhouette in the corner of his eye. Sherlock did not want to see more. “That’s not what happened. Don’t be angry with him, it was-“

“I don’t care what my brother does in his free time. It makes no difference to me, in the end.” He still couldn’t quite manage an aloof wave of his hand, so he went for a hard nudge at his cup, instead. The china clinked, inescapably loud in the suffocating quiet of the room, and he nudged it again. “I don’t want your pity or sense of obligation. You don’t owe me anything, and I assure you, despite whatever sad, sympathetic story Mycroft spun for you, I don’t need you feeling sorry for me. I’m _fine,_ John- I just see no sense in continuing our co-habitation when _you_ were the one who made clear that what I had done was unforgivable!”

John stiffened again, but Sherlock barely even noticed it at all under the sudden hot rush of indignation and fury. God, he didn’t _want this._ This was precisely why he had told Mycroft to keep his mouth shut! John hating him for what he had done, that was already deplorable enough, it was the highest price he could have ever conceived of paying, but to have _this?!_ To come back to John looking at him with sad eyes, serving him tea, buying him sugar, taking him home instead of hospital when, by all rights, he should’ve been admitted this time last week? No longer remarkable or amazing or fascinating, but no longer hateful, psychopathic, or freakish, either- but instead, so sickeningly _pathetic_ that John didn’t even take him seriously, anymore?

John looked at him now, and saw something fragile as a child in need of coddling.

Before it had been intolerable, but this. _This._

This was _unbearable._

Moriarty would have been overjoyed. His entire network burned to ash, the psychopath himself, dead and buried and rotting in the ground, Sherlock’s name cleared and his reputation restored-

_I will burn the heart out of you._

...and he’d still lost the only thing that mattered.

Sherlock wrangled himself to his feet, his heart uncomfortably lodged in his throat. His hands suddenly gone cold and clammy, the look on John’s face a spear through the chest, and all he wanted was to get away. “This- this isn’t helping. Not anything at all. I’m-“ He tried to wipe his mouth, but it _hurt,_ and Sherlock abruptly just _loathed_ himself for this entire dammed stupid venture. _He_ had chosen to come home with John, _he_ had chosen a whole night alone in the flat with John Watson, and why? _Stupid_ , he was _stupid, stupid, stupid-_

“Christ, you’re shaking. I’m so- here, let me-“

“Just leave me _alone,_ John! I am _fine,_ so if you would just-“

John grabbed for both of his upper arms, stood right in his way, and said, “No.”

Sherlock’s protest fell flat.

“No,” John said again. “You are not fine, and I am not going to leave you alone.”

For all that he was a foot shorter than Sherlock, the grip on his arms was solid, and the look in his blue eyes, such a clear, unwavering gaze of strength, Sherlock just about fashioned a white flag then and there.

When was the last time John had looked at him like _that?_

“Two things,” John went on, clearing his throat. He actually, physically sat Sherlock back down, pushing until his knees bent, one hand still on his arm, the other moving to press against his neck, feeling his pulse. “First off- you’re wrong. If you want to move out then I can’t stop you; honestly, you probably should, I don’t know why you’d want to give me another chance- but at least give me the chance to explain before you’re putting your things into boxes.”

John’s hand was steady and warm, two fingers still pressing close to his throat. It felt strangely reassuring, in a way- the unavoidable, pressing proof that he was in the best hands for the best of possible care. He _hated_ that he still trusted that, but he did and he couldn't erase that no matter how hard he'd tried. It was a feeling only John had ever given him before, and it seemed that despite everything else that had transpired, he did still trust John Watson.

Sherlock swallowed. It made John's hand shift in a strange way, but did not, somehow, dislodge it. He considered throwing it off.

In the end, he did nothing at all but nod.

“And the second?” he asked dully.

John sighed. “The second.” The hand on his arm tightened momentarily, his thumb winding into his sleeve, like an almost possessive, protective, mini-hug. “If you really don’t want to live with me anymore, then- I’ll leave, Sherlock. You... Baker Street is your _home._ You don’t have to leave it. Not for me.” He cleared his throat, an apparent struggle to smile. “You’d break Mrs. Hudson’s heart if you left, Sherlock.”

There was another intensely unsettling period of silence. John, as if only just realising they were still touching, suddenly jerked his hands back. The absence left him cold and aching, but John moved only to crouch before him. Not touching, not forcing anything, but close enough that he could feel the warmth ghosting over the crusted, angry sores in his skin.

He didn’t want to miss this.

He didn’t want to _want_ this.

“Listen to me,” John murmured, his voice low. “I think I understand where you’re coming from, a little. But you’re wrong. I’m not here because I feel obligated to be, and I’m certainly not here because I pity you, Sherlock.” He went absently for the old towels, still wrapped loosely around Sherlock’s hands, straightening them out and affixing them as if he just needed something to do. “...I wanted to wait to do this until later. When you felt better, so this could be a more proper conversation. Which I think we still need to have, but... this needs to happen now, I think.”

He took a deep breath, his eyes still averted. He pulled at one of the towels once again, a nervous tic, perhaps, then just settled for letting his hand rest on Sherlock’s knee, cotton towel and wool blanket between them.

Sherlock hated himself, for wanting that pressure to stay.

“You know that I’ve been angry with you. Yes?”

He sniffed, struck between affronted and insulted. _“Obviously.”_

“Right.” John offered a small, somewhat unhappy smile. “Do you know why I’ve been angry with you?”

“I think you’ve made that quite clear, J-“

“Then tell me.”

“John.” He exhaled through his nose, suddenly uncomfortable with just how close to him John was. He squirmed backward against the sofa, missing the isolation of Wiggins’ flat, craving the security of his own bedroom. “This is ridi-“

“I don’t care. Say it anyway.” John cleared his throat again, tilting his head up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “We’ve been assuming this sort of stuff for months, and this mess? This is where that’s gotten us. I don’t care if it feels ridiculous to say it, or sentimental, or _whatever,_ we need to talk honestly about this, Sherlock. _You_ need to talk honestly about it. I need to hear you say it.”

Sherlock wondered if going straight to hospital might not still be an option after all.

“You’ve been angry," he muttered, "because I didn’t include you in my plan. Obviously.”

John _smiled._

Smiled at Sherlock, for the first time in what felt like _months._ An actual, small, genuine little smile. And then he shook his head, and the drop in his stomach felt like that smile had just sucker punched him straight in the cracked rib.

“No,” John said. “This is what I meant about assuming things, yeah? Almost, but not quite, Sherlock.”

“What are you _talking_ about, you’ve said explicitly that-“

“I’ve been angry because you didn’t tell me _why_ you didn’t include me.”

“Splitting hairs,” Sherlock huffed, again trying, futilely, to yank away. “Semantics, John-“

But John shook his head again, and for someone who’d wanted nothing at all to do with him their last conversation, was rather ridiculously determined to keep Sherlock right where he was for this one. “No, it’s not. It might seem like it to you, but it’s _not._ It makes all the difference in the world, Sherlock. It’s the most-“ His breath wavered, caught, the words ground to an abrupt halt, and suddenly, there was something there in his eyes that he hadn’t seen in a long time. A wounded glint that had eaten its way there that night of the ruined proposal, and stared at him the night John had turned up with a duffel bag, no engagement ring, and nothing to say to him at all.

Sherlock was no expert at all, in human expression, emotion, and sentiment. But to him, it had always looked a little like hurt.

John took in another deep breath, closing his eyes. The shadow on his face cleared, but his eyes stayed shut and he bowed his head, seeming to have to struggle, for a moment. Struggle for breath, struggle for words; struggle for everything. “Okay,” he said at last, and still did not look up. “Sherlock. I’ve been angry with you because I thought you did this, all of this, in spite of me. Not for me. I thought that you killed yourself in front of me because it was convenient, left me behind for two years because you didn’t care, and heard me ask your bloody _grave_ for one more miracle and decided not to give it because you just didn’t care."

“Arguably, you're not entirely wr-“

“No, let me finish. Let me just say this, Sherlock.” The hand on his knee squeezed again, and John just _looked_ at him with this most earnest, pained, dreadful, miserable look on his face- so many things that he had never, ever wanted John to be. So many things that he had caused. So many things that he _kept causing,_ because he couldn't manage to just be _normal,_ and do this right.

“I was angry because you put me through the worst two years of my life, and when I asked you why, you didn’t have an answer. You treated it like a joke. Do you have any idea, what that felt like? I get now that that was a horrible night for you too, I get that it’s been horrible for you ever since you came back, but I didn’t see any of that, Sherlock, I only saw- _god-“_ He sunk back to bury his face in his hands, his breaths suddenly ragged and pained, like he’d been winded and couldn’t quite catch his breath. “I’m so sorry. Sherlock- can I hug you?”

What. “Can you-“ He looked down at himself, stammering in his throat, then back at John. What about him looked as if he needed a- a _hug._ _What._ “I don’t... need a-“ He stumbled on the ridiculous word and coughed, clearing his throat. “A-“

“I know you don’t, Christ, Sherlock, _I_ do,” and John sniffed and then his arms wrapped around him, warm and present, and shaky breaths disappeared into the crook of his neck, and Sherlock had no idea how it happened but he was being _hugged_ just like in Lestrade’s office, all over again and he didn’t know what he was supposed to do.

“I missed you,” John rasped. “I've missed you so much."

"...I hardly went anywhere at all, J-"

 _"No,_ you dolt," he rasped. "I don't- I don’t just mean this, Sherlock. ...I don't just mean these past few weeks.”

And now, _that_ just made no sense at all. Why would John have possibly missed him? The fact that John had seemingly found him detestable enough to not desire his company at all aside, he had _been_ here. How could John have missed him when he had been _right here;_ what was Sherlock meant to have done, relocated his things to his bedroom? Accompanied him to Tesco’s? Was this another one of those things that relied on being a Normal Human Being to understand; another sentimental puzzle piece that he and Mycroft would never get, because there was something Wrong with them?

Sherlock considered John, then. The arms around him. The earnest words choked into his neck, the strong, reassuring hands that kept carefully away from every sore, swollen bit of him and keeping him steady for the first time since he’d been dumped unceremoniously on the kerb handcuffed and bleeding and told to make a phone call.

He considered how acutely he had missed this John. While he was away, yes- but then he had come back, and John had been right there, and-

It hadn't helped.

It hadn't helped at all.

Perhaps this made some measure of sense after all.

John mercifully pulled back after a few seconds, giving Sherlock the space to breathe again. He sniffed once, expression still sufficiently wrecked with damp guilt and devastation, and the grip on his arms was even tighter. “Why did you not tell me?” he pressed, giving him a faint shake. “Why- why did you _lie,_ Sherlock?”

And to that-

He didn’t have an answer, did he?

“I don’t-“ Sherlock groaned, suddenly immeasurably frustrated; with Mycroft, with John, with himself, with the leaden weight on his tongue that swallowed everything he might’ve ever wanted to say into the six months of silence that stretched between them. "I don't _know!_ I-"

"Yes, you do! You know _everything,_ for god's sake, you know what I had for breakfast, Sherlock, I _know_ you know. You didn't just do this on a whim."

But he _had._

That was the problem.

This- he had never intended _this._

“I had planned on telling you, at the time," he sighed, still glowering at his hands. Look at that; now he was avoiding John's eyes. "But you expressed such vehement displeasure with me, that night, and Mary said she would talk you around, but she _didn’t,_ not well enough, and- stop _looking_ at me like that, for god’s sake, John-“

John blinked, and his face fell in a shroud of confusion. He started to lean back, to let go, and prickled loneliness and misery and hurt thrilled in Sherlock’s chest so sharply he thought perhaps heartbreak might just mean more than metaphorical whimsy.

“I never wanted _this!”_ he hissed. He didn’t want John touching him like this, he didn’t want that sad, confused look on John’s face, but he couldn’t stand it for him to pull away and grabbed him through the pain. “You were much more angry than I had ever predicted you to be, and I knew if I told you why it was necessary that would stop. You would feel guilty, and grateful, and- _obligated,”_ he spat. “All temporary things. I have no use for temporary things. There was no sense in manipulating forgiveness that would wear out when the obligation did, and there still isn't!"

"Sherlock-"

"I thought that perhaps if I let you express that anger, so to speak. To hurt me the way that I had hurt you- justifiably so, I understand why, John- then that would be enough; at some point the score would be settled. But it never was, and this- I don’t _want_ this, John, don’t you see?” He gestured once between them, fingers numb and shaking, his wrist eaten inside out from a deep, burning pain, but it was _unforgivable_ that his voice shook. He’d have torn out his own vocal cords if he could. “If there is something I could do to sufficiently settle this score I would, but all evidence suggests there is not, and I can not do _temporary,_ John. I will not. I will not return to this when you have told me yourself you can’t forgive it, I will not waste my time trying to earn it any longer, and I can not do this when I know it’s not going to last.”

And the look on John’s face then was, quite possibly, the worst thing that Sherlock had ever seen.

Crestfallen, again. Heartbroken. As if-

Well, as if Sherlock had just thrown himself off a building in front of him.

This had been a mistake.

This had all been such a brainless, hateful, _unforgivable_ mistake.

John’s hands left him again. The doctor this time turned away, covering his mouth, up on his feet to turn his back and pace and look so acutely horrified he might as well have forgotten how to breathe. He mumbled something more than once, aborted attempts to speak that each fell apart as he just paced and shook his head and looked stricken. And people wondered why Sherlock avoided conversations like this as if his life depended on it.

When John finally did turn back to face him, the look in his eyes was nothing short of personified agony. He looked utterly and completely _miserable._

“Listen to me,” he choked. As if this was the single most important thing he had ever said in his life, and the single most important thing Sherlock would ever need to do was listen. “You are- there are so many things wrong with what you just said. I don’t even know where to start, to be quite honest, but- _please,_ god, just listen to me, Sherlock. This isn’t temporary. I am so, so sorry, but I’m not here because Mycroft made me feel guilty. Do you understand?”

 _Yes,_ he started to say, but couldn’t. _Yes. I understand that you believe that._

“Okay,” John said, nodding, and didn’t ask again. “I am here because this whole time, I thought you did this to us, to _me,_ because you didn’t care, and I had no idea that it was something done to you, too. Now I realise that couldn’t be further from the truth, and Sherlock- I’m here because I _want_ to be, because I want to make this right, and-“

“There’s nothing to-“

“-you’re my best friend, Sherlock. I’m here because you’re my best friend, I wrote an entire bloody book to that point and somehow still forgot that, and I’m sorry and I know you’re sorry too, but can we just- start over? Can you at least let me _try_ to make this up to you?”

But Sherlock didn’t understand, not really, and the pained look on John’s face made him want to crawl out of his own skin. That was a question he couldn’t answer, not when John was looking at him like the wrong one would be another fall off a building. This had to stop. It had to.

He squirmed away instead, and did what he did best.

Deflected.

“I read it. Your... book. This past week.” He chanced a look at John’s face again, unsure if that reminder would set him off again, but the look in his eyes stayed only earnest and sincere. “I wanted to understand why it meant so much to you.”

John sat silently for several moments, watching him with clouded eyes. He finally nodded, through with a palpable effort to reign whatever his own reaction was in. “And... do you, then?”

“...No.”

He waited. For what he had learned was the inevitable. The exasperation and annoyance, at Sherlock being a Disappointment _yet again._ The tired sigh when he realised Sherlock wasn’t just being difficult, he really was just _that_ inhuman, _that_ abnormal, _that_ much of a _freak_ , and John’s promised good will would prove to be just as ephemeral as he’d already known.

He waited.

And John waited, too.

John stayed quiet, watching him silently, and waited for him to go on.

It was so unsettling Sherlock almost forgot what he’d been going to say.

“...no,” he said again, swallowing roughly. “I don’t. I’ve never understood why we as a species persist on wasting time and money on the dead at all. I don’t understand the sense of _funerals,_ John. I was dead, and you are- your time is capable of much, much more than a dedicating a book to a dead man.”

And he waited for the exasperation again.

It didn’t come.

John grinned after several moments, when it became clear he was done. “You’re right,” he said easily. “It is a bit silly. Like you said, you were dead. Not much use in doing anything for a dead man. And it... would’ve been a waste of time, if I’d written it for you.”

“You said that you did.”

“Right,” John laughed, "right, I suppose I did, didn’t I? I did tell myself that was why for a long time. Because it’s a really nice and noble sounding explanation that made me feel better about myself, but the truth of it was, I wrote it for myself.”

“I _read the book,_ John. The first page said it was dedicated to me.”

“Yeah, and clearly I never thought you would actually _see that,_ you idiot.” John laughed again, his smile strained, and sat back to just shake his head, looking thoroughly unhappy. “Though I’m surprised that didn’t stroke your ego. I was miserable, Sherlock, I thought my best friend had killed himself because of me, and I wanted to feel useful, so I wrote a fucking bestseller to keep myself busy. But you know?” He met Sherlock’s eyes again, with that same unhappy, difficult smile. “Even knowing what I do now, I’d write it again. Because every word in that book was true, and... all I need from you is the chance to let me prove that I still mean them.”

“John...”

“No, I get it. I do. I really do.” John moved to stand up again, clearly wanting to pace, but with another strained breath stayed down, staring at him and refusing to back away. “I did some unforgivable things to you.”

“I understand perfectly why-“

“You lied to me and I’m still- _really-_ pissed off about that, we both really messed this up, Sherlock. You... are an _idiot,_ Sherlock Holmes, and so am I, just- just a massive, unforgivable idiot, and I can’t promise I won’t fuck things up again, but- I’m sorry. For whatever that’s worth. I’m _sorry._ If you don’t want to live with me anymore- that’s... that’s fine,” but the look on his face said it was anything but, “if you want me to stay just while you need someone to look after your hands, that’s fine too. And I know everything I've said before now is contrary to all this, and I feel like I haven't even really explained anything at all, just, I'm, I'm _sorry,_ Sherlock, I- all I can say is that if you can give me another chance, I can promise that I won’t waste it this time.”

Sherlock still didn’t _get it._

He wanted to. That was why he’d read the book in the first place, why he’d agreed to coming back here with John tonight, why he’d sat here for this conversation at all. But he had born defective in this, and it simply didn’t fit.

He didn’t understand why John wanted to try again. And he still didn’t understand the point of that bloody book. And it still didn’t make sense that he could somehow mean that much to John Watson. That he was, as John had termed it, his- best friend.

But John was sitting here, insisting that he was.

And Sherlock just wanted to say yes.

He probably shouldn’t, if he thought about it for more than half a second. The same way he Probably Shouldn’t have spent the week at a drug dealer’s flat, Probably Shouldn’t have let John hit him, Probably Shouldn’t have let Mycroft interfere. He still didn’t get why things were _different_ now, and falling off a building earned forgiveness but not pity. He- was still _angry._

Sherlock took a deep breath, and carefully extricated himself from John. He slid his arms out from under John’s grip, and when John let him go, he pushed to his feet and drew away from him. He slipped wordlessly to stand by the kitchen, just to get his back to John, but now that he was there found himself searching through the room for the first time in a month.

His earlier experiment had been cleared away. Which was a good thing; if it hadn’t, he would’ve come back to a toxic mold infestation, instead. His microscope and slides, however, remained. Which was quite odd, for a flatmate that had spent the last six months glowering askance at them and the occupied table as if it was the greatest possible offense to life itself.

The glass that John had broken was nowhere to be seen.

Neither was any alcohol.

That wasn’t Mycroft’s doing. It wasn’t his way. It also wasn’t Mrs. Hudson’s. If it had been anything but John’s explicit wish, then John would’ve been so pissed off, he would’ve gone out and bought twice the number of bottles and left them on prominent display, just to prove the point.

_I want this. I want this back._

_Why is it so bad to want this back?_

His hands hurt.

“...John.”

“Yes. Yes, Sherlock-“

“I’m not a freak,” he said quietly.

John’s words cut off into a sharp breath, and Sherlock, again, waited.

_Do you hear what that really means, John?_

_I don’t care when Donovan says it. I don’t care when anyone says it. I don’t even care that it’s probably true. But I can’t let myself do this again if I know you still think it. If that’s how this is going to be._

John breathed in again, the sound shaky and wounded. “I know,” he said softly, and those two words sounded like the hardest thing he’d ever had to say. “You’re not.”

Or... no. Not quite.

It wasn’t hard for him to say. That wasn’t why those words sounded like he’d just been forcefed a tea cup of nails.

It was hard for him to admit he’d ever said otherwise.

_...this is still probably very, very stupid._

Sherlock took another breath, and smirked to the empty kitchen.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking, and sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you?” He tilted his head back over his shoulder, looking back at John, still crouching uselessly on the floor, bad leg angled, good shoulder braced against the sofa. Idiot. “Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

The look on his face was-

About how he had imagined John to look the night he’d came back from the dead, actually.

“Hmm. I don’t know,” John said. He stood as well, but then stayed where he was, watching Sherlock with a barely contained sort of glee. “I have a tendency to say and do really, really stupid things when I’m angry, and considering my best friend is Sherlock Holmes, returned from the dead, I think I get angry a little more than the average. I’m working on it.” He paused and smiled himself, a tentative edge to it. “Does that bother you?”

His hand was shaking a little. John didn’t even look as if he’d noticed.

“Well, I seem to have a brother whose life’s purpose is apparently to inadvertently get me killed, and a tendency of my own to fall off rooftops, if we’re really talking about the _worst_ about each other-“

“No,” John stopped him, suddenly serious. “No more rooftops.” He hesitated for another moment, deliberating on something, then turned his gaze back onto Sherlock with a look on his eyes that made him feel warm, inside and out. “And you didn’t fall, or jump. You were pushed. ...even if I might say something different the next time we argue. You were pushed, Sherlock. And the person who pushed you is the one I should be angry at.” He paused again, giving him a slight, hopeful smile. “For the most part.”

Hmm.

_Right, then._

On that note,” Sherlock said, and grinned back. “More tea?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it!
> 
> My next idea is, for once, good to John- the BAMF and protective and good friend John we all wanted out of this fic, actually- but it's going to take lots of poking, so we'll see how that turns out. My laptop also turns out to not have been fixed at all (they actually made it fucking worse), so that might be a delay as well. We shall see.
> 
> As always, feedback will forever be welcome and appreciated!!! <3


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